The weeping willow,
threadbare, like a wiring loom,
connects no leaves now.

Dull grass shrouds the lawn,
covering bare bones thinly;
summer's requiem.

Undimmed by winter,
the brightly coloured toy horde
sings loudly off key.

On the flower bed,
the remains of old fireworks
moulder and decay.

Hidden in corners
of the rugged garden shed,
small things cling to life.

Black leaves in silence
settle wetly on the lawn -
from whence, I know not.

The pine tree proclaims
life goes always, ever on;
spring will come again.