An Old Shack

When the fog rolls in covering the trees out the back,
When the murk is so thick he can’t see his old shack
that’s stood for years through the Summer’s harsh stare
creaking in the heat while the temperatures flare.
When his mind sees the world through a blanket of mist,
When visibility falters, he gets his tail in a twist.
Then he wonders if she still leaves home for a jog
down by the school yard in the deepening fog.
He remembers the day they met near his shack
when he gave her some water from the tap out the back.
Falling for each other, they were not meant to know
that soon he’d be lonely, dejected, brought low.
Alone with a coffin, so much needing to know
of the young girl he met at a shack in the mist long ago.


When the fog rolls in dimming the trees at the gate,
He feeds bread to the doves, they won’t castigate
a modern day Francis, recalling Assisi of course,
his lined face contented, body strength a spent force.
No signs of regret that his partner’s not seen
near the gate with the tree and its lingering green.
Days that are grey one by one in sequence
disturb him no more, make no difference.
But feeding the doves lets his feelings inside
fool everyone there, but the one at his side
who remembers a girl, a shack and a love that ne’er died.
Always he’s courteous, treats his daughter as queen,
He knows in a short time he’ll no longer be seen,
When he closes his eyes for the last ever night,
He awaits the dawn, and his spirit is light
as he joins his true love in a wondrous flight
above the shack where two lovers began their slow dance,
two doves, now united, in a kindled romance.


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