The Hut

The woodland drips in February rain      
heavy clouds hiding  sun and have        
for days and many to come, cold      
a cold that shivers the soul      
sodden shoulders corduroy, ginger in        
the sun, darkened by the rain's heavy ,    
stiff and cold embrace.        
      
I did not know him,or his name      
stains of tobacco on his finger nails      
smell of oak smoke, sweat,and rabbit skins,      
damp a  damp that clings about      
corrugated walls and leaking window panes,      
Soil floors, earth beneath ragged rugs      
of clips cut from old coats worn      
long after  usefulness,an old nail      
he'd used these lonely years,      
still shining ,smoothed by coarse sacking .    
Warp and weft of jute wrapped round  knees      
keeping legs warm in candle light      
repelling February rain's  unremitting cold.      
A distant village clock counts five,      
pendulous time no relief from rain        
and chilling draughts,      
      
I read this story from  walls of a hut      
not  grade 2 listed,  none the less      
once home  for a man who cared        
for this wood ,now sad and neglected    
I guess,I do not know the truth,perhaps      
he was a charcoal burner or swine-herd .    
Who knows ? Who cares ?      
.All I know he was cold and wet        
each February  night when it rained      
as foxes sulked and rabbits feared the dawn.