The plain iron gates of Timothy Lane
Wet and cold from the winter rain…
Of bleak weeks past and unknown days
Cold with dismay from the widow’s gaze
The widow’s eyes red from tears
Of nightmares past and present fears
The bells of the church ring far and wide
From shadows dark well implied
The plain iron gates of Timothy Lane
Wet and rusted from the winter rain…
The dark gray clouds fill the once blue sky
Darkens the day like a child’s cry
The plain iron gates of Timothy Lane
Rusted and stained from the tears and rain.
Of bleak weeks past and unknown days
Cold with dismay from the widow’s gaze

Where stands the lonesome tree?
And what protects it, the branches?
What shapes its growth but the weary?
And amongst said branches…leaves.

What fragile life do we share with it?
For like the leaves we brittle and fall…
and like the wind…. breath fades...

What supports its existence?
Is it time? Persistence?
What is its purpose?

Alone and lost underneath these branches
Stand in fear we take our chances

And in the distance stands a figure
Who’s cloak and shadow dance with vigor

Who’s face as if clouded
Whose memories all but shrouded
Whose name all but doubted…

Silence as if in mocking
In truth as if blocking

And in the darkness we stand and ponder
In the darkness our minds wonder
The time that we lose and squander
Under the lonesome tree