poet. writer. imposter.
There was a time when a small shack,
– unused in decades – stood here, shaking
under a barrage of wind and hail;
door barely hanging on by it’s friable
rust devoured hinges; charged
with the reek of leaf mould
and rotting hare. So moved by
the desolation I vowed to spend
my retirement ekeing out a living
in the renovated bothy, content beneath
my hanging valley, to watch the nearby
island county shine in winter duskfall.