Here Poem by Sandra Osborne

An old house, sitting
upon a lonely hill,
surrounded by gray,
abandoned, dead cotton.

It beckons,
calls from the past.
Voices long gone,
people, pets, children
running along the lane...
Ghosts of antiquity.

I ache as the high grass bows,
the bushes, un-kept and wild,
the bleak unpainted walls,
black, dirt covered and chipped.

Here,
The winds are the only voices,
screaming, 'Where did they go? '
The family who lived, laughed, and loved here?

Here,
Where now live the mice, ants and birds.

Here,
Where the sun rises and sets,
Upon an old, abandoned house.