When it's old, it's a space to store, Spiders make it their abode, It might not even have a proper door. If it is new, it offers good ground, It will have a great view, Where the stars may be found.

A heavy gray haze, Obstructing the dawn's bright hue. Of smoke and fog, I'm a portmanteau.

Bright as a blush in the morning sun, I hide my seeds where most have none. Sweet on the tongue, in gardens I grow. Name me, the berry with freckles in rows. What am I?

I go through phases, yet I always stay the same. What am I?

Horses are pointless. I'm a mythical white version, with a point.