Burnt Toast

What a peculiar smell The kitchen is burnt with the taste of raw chicken and rotten tomatoes Too many dead flies lay upon the window sill Waiting to be swept away with the closing of a curtain And in the middle of the garden Cucumbers grow from tops the soil under the tree Inhibited by the broken house Shelter to only faeries and fawn Tree house Broken like everything else around A pool house Woven over with ivy and honeysuckle Where the wild things grow And the summer can't be found To the weary, worn path Cobblestones No longer stone Even the birds have gone now No longer seeking a refuge of the snow Pool turnt swamp many years ago, now Covered in the silk of green Not letting go of the sun No more pool