Shack
Charred remains,
burnt stick’d tinder from which
the shack was
fashioned, hidden
within the
hollow, below beech trees, deep
inside the wood,
where his body was found
still cradled
within his den.
His place now
open to the sky, gaping, where the roof once was,
a door, a corrugated
iron sheet, tattered tarpaulin, old palings
rope-shackled,
and wire that formed his rural refuge.
His suburban
semi only miles away, his wife
and children
waiting, unable
to understand what
eccentric whim
drove him to
live this way, abandon
comfort and
company, to bury himself
in muddy abode,
freezing
in the depth of winter,
half-starving
alone in the
back-woods.
Alcohol and
cigarettes to numb
the pain, and
pass the time,
a camping stove,
a naked flame to cook
and warm the
fingers, to keep at bay
damp and mould,
the essential tools
of staying alive,
catching alight, spreading
flames or fumes,
smoke or steam becoming
the agency of
his unseen death.
Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018
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