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.



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