Autumn’s lost children lay in the corner,
Bereft of branch and blown off
life
To lie here dry and dead
In this shed behind the midden by
the byre
No path, no light and hope for a
shite
The hurricane lamp drunkingly
dancing the night
Stumbling past henhouses all in a
row,
Its snug straw citizens
scratching warm, wormed dreams
The wind carved bush pointed to
the sea
“That way young man “
The cold clutch of the mildewed,
whitewashed walls
Clamouring, clamouring “Come in,
come in “
Stout latch, wind shut.
Cold throne sat.
Sharp paper safe.
Safe amid the wild, wild world.
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