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Years have passed  
since last I came,            
the hut was whole          
and a cuckoo sang.            
today promises of rain,            
black clouds tell me so.            
they often tell the truth            
today no exception          
thunder in the west,          
a gentle hint  ...  all I need            
my jacket zipped and warm.            
Let it come I'm ready.  
           
Saplings planted six years now,            
ash and oak smothered            
smothered by the birch,            
which was not invited.            
The hut  destroyed by a fallen oak            
the light soil here no safe home for oaks            
the soil podsolic,,sandy, water-logged            
ditches no longer drain the wood.  
          
The hut cannot give me shelter            
corrugated walls bent, worthless,            
chimney stack and Victorian pot remain,            
cold without a fire, or the ghost of an old man            
who once made hurdles, green-wood-chairs            
and other things I do not know,    
Oh ! and tea, there was always tea            
when nights were cold and  foxes howled.
            
I was not alone,my son  with me.            
The last time he came we had Jack.            
His photo on the mantle-shelf.            
Changeless,black and white.