I Sit Below the Gable End

By

Once a whitewashed wall,
Thick paint peeling from repeated coats –
The wool from time and time again caught
On the iron hook’s still stern face,
Casually winking in the claggy breeze.
I read, Nothing, in the lamb white days…
that time would take me. *

On looking in;
Odds and ends, old rusted pliers, docking rings,
Fading orange-yellow bailing twine
Tightly tied by arthritic hands.
Saved perhaps for some future purpose, just in case
It’s needed.
A pile of them interlocking on the handle of the industrial 70’s freezer –Diversified;
Its new-found use – to hold the feed.

The graffitied concrete bricks,
A miss match of quick pink, red, black strokes
To test the spray cans for the fleeces of the young’uns.

In amongst this chaotic silence, in peace to rest
Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand*
The swallows nest.

*Fern Hill, Dylan Thomas

Image: Pete Birkinshaw via Flickr

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