The Hut 1 Poem by John Rickell

I heard the blackbird
Shiver in the wood
Gold beak tight closed,
Ginger bracken fronds tinder dry,
In the trees raucous crows
Were silent too,
Nests half done, no sound of work.

The clock said six
But the light had gone,
My footsteps cracked the twigs
Blown down in last week's storm,
Alone I walked..Took care,
Respectful of the woodland’s mood.
The woodman's hut. metal-clad,
A chimney still intact,
Door frame and window space
No door no window pane.

Who was here and when
Chopping wood and felling trees?
Or burning charcoal
Trapped in smoke,
Damping down the flames....
Swollen cancerous nose....
And puffing on his pipe.
The rippling walls and roof
Corrugated sheets, rusting, silent.
I ran a stick along the walls
But the tune was not the half
Of childhood games on city rails
And there was no one here to wake,
No need to run away.

The chimney stack in brick
Propped up the gable end.
Inside, the hearth lay bare
The bricks were black
It had been used, but when?
The soot, as silent as the day,
Hung with insect wings.

What did this place say?
Oh yes it whispered,
But even in silent evening light
I was none the wiser.
The old man, if that is what he was
Had left no trace
Perhaps had nothing much to leave.
This shed was never even his....
Like me had silence to himself.

I found myself nostalgic,
The cold got to my bones
The light was low,
Birds more sense than me
Had long since gone to bed.
The rabbits too and squirrel.
Romantic dreams....a poor man
In his stable
Heavy coat for eiderdown
Candle-lamp for light.

It was time to go
I turned, left the hut
Half wanting to repair it,
But nostalgia is a dangerous mood
My home is warm
My coat's hung in the hall
Duvet on the bed and much, much more
Electric light..........I could go on.....
I can afford to dream....