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.