Perilously, the gate hangs
on rusted hinges
from a once-white picket fence.
The walkway. impassable
is covered with tall grass and weeds.
Bricks from the crumbling fireplace
lie on the ground in uncoordinated heaps.
Shutters dangle from the windows,
windows unpaned and splintered.
A ghost of its former self,
this once proud home sits in disarray.
I stand at the gate,

By Charline Coulter (

Watch these pages for more poems by Charline.
In the meantime, click the links below for other poems and stories by the authors at Lara's Den.

On New Friends In Old Age

A Room Under The Eaves

The Journey

The Crowded Bird Feeder

A Lovelorn Welshman

Teddy Bear

And.......for many others, click the index image.

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