Tressington Lounds

'Cross empty veldt a lonesome nomad roams
And grey stone shadow cries its last contempt
‘Neath sullen skies and wilted onion bones
With ruined sconce and buckled implement
A portioned relic morbid to the last
Once cordoned here the runnels of its way
To cry withal and shelter from the blast -
Remembrance quits the brighter strands of day.