Charcoal smoking in the wood ( The Hut )

We passed the hut, he was not there
whispers of smoke ghostly in the morning light,
never locks the door,
little there to take I suppose.
We walk on, the path crisp and dry
ferns yellowing as spores ripen,
another tree down in the night,
light soil crumbling in the drought,
not much rain this year.
Ditches bone dry below the wooden bridge.
Jack's on ahead out of sight
so I whistle, two sharp blasts
and sure enough he turns the corner
sees me raise my arm and 'Stay'
sits at fifty yards and waits..
Now and then a biscuit and away,
rough coat, deepening on his chest.
The path is anti-clockwise
(well it is the way we go )
pass the hut again, its corrugations
shining with the drying dew,
the chimney cold and door wide open.
must look in to check all is well.
Everything in place as I imagine,
imagine each day I call . . . .
an old man, pipe and oatmeal stout,
charcoal smoking in the wood.