The last house just before the turn
before the pillar trees.
Collects the first darkness, loses the
daylight before anyone else.
Its roof sinks into the wood in the evening
front gate closes before my own.
Before the turn into the unknown
it stands broad, but then the introduced black
shadows cloak the walls. The last house,
a step away from the wood, that creeps
up slowly every year. Dropped seeds,
running weeds, suffocating ivy
are all wrapping up its identity.
I see the last house on the canopy line
looking retired and weather worn.
Relieved I don't live inside.
Gareth Culshaw lives in N Wales, he loves the outdoors and hopes to achieve something special with the pen.