Down the Lane
Created | Updated Jun 18, 2008
At one end of this lane is a derelict barn
Sagging and leaning dangerously
The corrugated iron roof is rusted through
Laced with holes – more hole than rust
Under the creaking roof are bales of rotting straw
High teetering towers of rolls and rectangles
Home now to busy rodents, industrious insects
Undermined and overgrown by worms and weeds
Ground elder and tall nettles guard it all round
Sticky Willie clambers over the stinging jungle
Trying to drag it down, vying for the light
Rank grass studded with buttercups crowd the margin
Behind the barn a hay field gone to thistles
In one corner a heap of discarded black polythene
Old silage wrap, blue polypropylene rope
Fringed around with marestail, cow parsley, ragwort
Across the lane a tree-lined stream murmurs
Shaded, hiding its fish from hungry herons
Beneath oak, ash, willow, bramble and dogrose
And a broken row of skeletal elms, some fallen
Overhead buzzards wheel, three of five, hunting
Sending out that haunting call, high and clear
Song birds pause, perched among the rustling leaves
Rabbits crouch in hedge and tussock, waiting
A gentle rising breeze stirs through sleepy branches
In satin blue, clouds barely moving, perform a slow dance
Of seven veils with the westering sun, now partly hidden
Poplars shiver with delight, clap their leaves in soft applause
Sagging and leaning dangerously
The corrugated iron roof is rusted through
Laced with holes – more hole than rust
Under the creaking roof are bales of rotting straw
High teetering towers of rolls and rectangles
Home now to busy rodents, industrious insects
Undermined and overgrown by worms and weeds
Ground elder and tall nettles guard it all round
Sticky Willie clambers over the stinging jungle
Trying to drag it down, vying for the light
Rank grass studded with buttercups crowd the margin
Behind the barn a hay field gone to thistles
In one corner a heap of discarded black polythene
Old silage wrap, blue polypropylene rope
Fringed around with marestail, cow parsley, ragwort
Across the lane a tree-lined stream murmurs
Shaded, hiding its fish from hungry herons
Beneath oak, ash, willow, bramble and dogrose
And a broken row of skeletal elms, some fallen
Overhead buzzards wheel, three of five, hunting
Sending out that haunting call, high and clear
Song birds pause, perched among the rustling leaves
Rabbits crouch in hedge and tussock, waiting
A gentle rising breeze stirs through sleepy branches
In satin blue, clouds barely moving, perform a slow dance
Of seven veils with the westering sun, now partly hidden
Poplars shiver with delight, clap their leaves in soft applause
