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.