Friday, 18 October 2013

Cold Pilchards

Living rough, once. A cabin on the shore.

Your bed smelt like a river.
You often went under.

You packed up your belongings – two pairs of trousers, a biography of Orwell and I can't remember what else, in a metal trunk brown with rust. Planted it in a hedge of docks and cow-parsley every morning.

Savage living, it was.

Cold pilchards, straight from the can.

One day a truck seat dumped on the shore
became your front room.

You made
good use of it.

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