A Small Room

Among the bushes, unwinding, a track. Along side grass grows here and here and here through the overgrown garden out the back left untouched from year to year to year. Built in lonely hills, a wooden cottage leans up against the old dejected fence. In the cool morning, smells of cold porridge. Standing passionless, the old man is tense. In the cottage, a small wood-heated room. Blackened stains smothering the once-clean walls. Cluttered with books and jars, a broken broom. Distant piercing sounds of a black-birds call. The box is lowered, lifeless, into the ground. A tombstone reading Mr Thomas Brown. -Billy Allen