Pink House from a Distance

My marshy mistress, the old grey mare, but pink, a fading pink, a pink for the ages, a beauty in disrepair, artists in despair as her fate moves towards oblivion. Ashes to ashes, and go she must, says those that goes by the theory that she can no longer be, there by the sea, on a marsh in the middle of eternity. Alas the muse of visual poetry will fade in to the sunset, leaving us with the pink dust of a memory.