I followed a trail of old,
That faded and then became bold.
It led me around
A small little mound,
To a shack with a tale untold.
The door was wide open in yawn.
It faced what once was a lawn.
Someone had a dream,
For a home it would seem,
And I wondered why they were gone.
I entered that lonely old shack,
Three rooms with a door in the back.
Out back were four crosses,
Depicting the losses,
The painted-on names were alack.
Many a tale can be told,
Of things that have happened of old,
But many go slack,
Like the tale of this shack.
The historic tale has grown cold.
By Don Rothra