Tumbleweed Chalet.
There it was
A parafin coloured shack
All locked up and black.
Hidden amongst the trees.
A sort of don`t you see me.
But the river gave it
A mild reflection
And the fishermen
Were half-dozing
In the midday sun.
It`s the son of
Tumbleweed chalet.
Just like the old days.
I dreamt i was
A cowboy
Leaning on it`s broadwalk
Further on i went
Into the weeds.
Half a dozen ghost towns`
Strangled and forgotten please.
By council demand-
This land is private!
My feet fell through
Fallen canvas ceilings,
That lay upon the floor.
It`s the son
Of a tumbleweed chalet,
And maybe i am the valet
Or the wild cat
That darts in and out.
Half a broken gate
Leads to another
Ruin innate.
Punctured mattresses,
Cracked glass,
Daubed walls,
Turned over tables.
By council demand-
This land is private
And overrun!
poem by Peter Vealey
Added by Poetry Lover
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