Rupert Loydell writes

LAST ENTRY

At the end of the path,
away from manicured lawns,
behind a perfect hedge,
there is always an untidy corner
in shade, with stacked logs
and a heap of grass cuttings,
old tools piled against a wall.
I like these hidden refuges,
where birds dig for worms
and beetles make homes
in the woodpile. Once
these estates were lived in,
people sweated and swore,
worked hard for lodgings
and low wages. Now, it's
a place we walk through,
idling away a few hours
in the sun. If I sit here
long enough and pay
attention, I can make
room for possible futures,
albeit uncertain ones.
Last entry today is 5pm.



 
 
Portrait of an Old Man -- Ivan Zabota