SHELTER FROM THE STORM
Rust grows its red beard aboard the ark.
A hedge-strimmer’s serrated blade leans
Up against the shack’s shelter
Among the planks with foot rot
And the plastic tarpaulin’s blue dimples
Filled with mosquito ponds.
From the crowded occupation of metal and wood,
Bags of cement or compost,
Unused rolls of chicken fence mesh breathing,
Obsolete workshop machinery in stasis,
Iron rakes and sharp nails protruding
From a slatted door that won’t stay shut,
Bins and broken boxes competing damply.
You have to squeeze in to find a place
Where you can stay dry and hold your cup steady
As you sip your smoke grey as the sky.
Green leaves drip down the bordering branches
And everything crowds in
As at a bus stop passengers press together
When the rain makes waterfalls on canopied edges
To curtain off the outside.
Here, webs multiply the tangled view
As angled drainpipes provide their anchor
And for five minutes or more
Respite allows a man his tea and cigarette
Before going back indoors to write this note.