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.
good use of it.