In the once noble house,
almost all is taken except
The walls, the lath, now held on
by a cleat of wood and lace
that redeems the letcher,
denizen of Sussex wetlands.
Of late the chalet is latched
only by hate, and the letch
chats with outlaws in the storm's eclat
of thunder far off.
No knights or maidens remain,
nor any ruler of demesne
and the treasure is born
off to other kingdoms.
The well is dry and
fields are bare.
And in the end, all depart.
leaving doors open to the wind
and gate down to the woods.
And broken the way
down to the sea.