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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
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