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I walked along a dusty country lane
Where roses wound around in wild bouquets.
I saw the house with broken windowpane
beneath a cluster of green ivy leis.
A chimney covered with a thick-leaf maze
half-leaned like lanky sentinel of late
who guarded secrets of forgotten days
as though his duty was so very great.
Blue smoke no longer drifted way up high.
No voices filled the air with lively hum.
The well that gave fresh water had gone dry.
The orchard though was purple proud with plum.
The taste of juicy plums’ sweet memory
then yanked my yesterdays back home to me.
© Freeda Baker Nichols