The House

No lights anymore,
Twinkling through the trees,
And no house,
With the women gone,
No chimneys and no fires,
To warm the Jackdaws by,
No dancers rosy-cheeked,
And rich men's britches,
Warming by the logs,
No ghosts to gauge the time,
And the leaf-fall gives the lie,
To languid Summers' days.

And Dickin must have his fortune,
And the fortune nearly spent,
And his sweetheart, perforce,
Turned to rougher trade,
But Dickin must have his fortune,
And Destiny rides a horse,
And Destiny rides a mule,
And Destiny rides a pale horse,
And Death too soon prevails,
And Death will have one question,
If Dickin durst,
Wither the house and maid?

© R Frank Wilson