Far Up Above Town

Far up above town
looking over the orchards,
glass windows are broken,
thick doors are all boarded.
The old cellar is dusty
with soft rotted wood
and iron gone rusty.
The attic's turned white,
it's really quite pallid;
shrewn with cobweb,
and cloaked in dark powder.
Who left this place,
here as it sits,
this once stately manor
now bored with vermin?
Was it the war hero,
who never returned?
Or perhaps the old Lord
who's meeting adjourned?
Or maybe -- a young man
swept up in his furtune
too quick-witted to bother
with his father's pension.
Whoever no longer matters
much to the living.
The ocean still waves,
the winds keep on giving.
And silly girls keep wandering
through overgrown orchards
far up above town
where the laughter is unbroken;
and dreams are still spoken
although glass panes are cracked
and the back door won't open.