Paul Willason | + Follow Poet |
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The Chook House

The chook house
stood empty for most
of my childhood.
An enclosed corrugated iron 
shed was surrounded 
by a wire fence
and a wooden gate 
held on by one rusty hinge.

Inside was small 
and cramped, just big enough 
to hold a seven year old
and keep out 
the rest of the world.
Daddy long leg spiders 
guarded its inner twilight,
webs were strung 
like trip wires to snare
an unwary soul.

Wounded I would seek 
refuge there, safe 
in its dark womb. Huddled
in silence, only a thin
umbilical of light 
connected me to the outside
through a nail hole
in the roof. No-one knew
I was there.

After seventy years
I still preserve the space,
keep it hidden
in a corner of my mind.
When the world 
gets too much
I make myself small
and go there.

Copyright © Paul Willason | Year Posted 2024

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Lin Lane Date: 1/16/2024 8:38:00 AM Oh, Paul. You write with such emotion, but subtly enough not to venture into teary territory. I feel your connection with that chook house, and you make it perfectly clear, despite the darkness inside, so that I see every spider web, and beam of light that shines through that nail hole. We all need a haven to where we can escape, even if now it's only found inside our memories. Pity, more people don't read you. Their loss. Login to Reply Paul Willason Date: 1/17/2024 3:46:00 PM Dear Lin, I thank you sincerely for your supportive comments. You have been a constant reader of my poetry and it is always a comforting thought to know that when I send my little children out into the world, they will be greeted by an appreciative few and that is enough. I am grateful and moved by your words.