thirstyAnd I could scarcely see
My way along the old tote road,
That long had seemed to me
To wind on aimlessly; but now
Came full to life; the rain
Would soon strike down; ahead I saw
A clearing, and a lane
Between gray, fallen fences and
Wide, grayer, grim stone walls;
So grim and gray I shrank from thought
Of weary, aching spalles.
On stony knoll great aspens swayed
And swung in browsing teeth
Of wind; slim, silvered yearlings shook
And shivered underneath.
Beyond, some ancient oak trees bent
And wrangled over roof
Of weatherbeaten house, and barn
Whose sag bespoke no hoof.
And ivy crawled up either end
Of house, to chimney, where
It lashed in futile anger at
The wind wolves of the air.
I thought the house abandoned, and
I ran to get inside,
When suddenly the old front door
Was opened and flung wide
- the start of Fallen Fences by Winifred Virginia Jackson
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