Homeless

The whinchats arrive from the south picking at the straw thatch

until I can watch day and night pass through the sky as I lie here.

 

In summer the long rain lashes its length against the windows.

It washes away the patched walls and the sun strikes hard and long from all directions.

 

Autumn is the hardest; frill-capped mushrooms and fat berries hatch at my feet,

and the animals that feed on them nibble at my flesh too.

 

The end comes fast with winter;

she gnaws at my bones, eats the last crumbs of my eyes.

 

I crack with the morning frost.

 

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s