The Last House by Gareth Culshaw

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.