A House On A Hill Poem by Warren Atherton

She sits all alone in her own little house
In a world where no people can see,
And her mind is a place where a myriad dreams
Bring a life to one old, such as she.
There, she can dance and sing of her love
And imagine the days she was fair,
Where none can intrude on her own painful thoughts
Of her life, and to what brought her there.

All the while she will sob and her tears freely fall
For the soldier she lost long ago.
Say ‘I Do’ once again in that old village hall,
To a love she would not get to know.
So, she drinks to remember and drinks to forget
As she sits in her old rocking-chair.
Every hour of the day in a drunkenly fret,
With her bourbon in hand, not a care.

No child from her womb just a plain ring of gold
That she clasps in the palm of her hand.
And she’ll rock in the dark, watching tick follow tock,
‘Til such weeping is all she can stand.
No family to visit on warm, sunny days
Just a photograph bears all her dreams.
In a monochrome world, lives her life in a daze
As her world falls apart at the seams.

So she sleeps all the day in a ramshackle room
Amid thick layers of dust all around,
And a pale, waning Sun sits atop of her tomb,
As she dreams of the day to be found.

This tale comes to end in a house on a hill
Where an old lady died in dismay.
But her chair gently rocks in a rooms’ bitter chill,
And her ghost can be seen to this day.