Garden of Poetry

Whose house this was, I cannot say,
The family has gone away.
Yet something lingers in the air,
As if to beckon me to stay.

The amber rays of evening light
Illuminate the chimney’s height,
Near set on fire the sagging eave,
Give glory to attrition’s blight.

No plow to cultivate new seeds,
What grew before is gone to weeds,
Along a path to an empty door -
An avenue of bygone deeds.

Across the fields, a solemn breeze
Stirs lifeless leaves upon the trees,
Like ghosts of faded memories,
Mere ghosts of faded memories.

~ Daniel F Mitchell