the old hut

 

Odd bits of timber are lining this sitting-room,
butted together, imperfectly cut,
fitted with functional, honest simplicity.
People pass quickly; their hearts remain shut.

Smoky brown mantelpiece, musing some memory,
window-panes, rippling the world which runs by,
floorboards, all grumbling with years when you step on them,
time, settling back on the couch with a sigh.

I can relax here, this fits me so perfectly,
I can relate to the past in this air;
I dream of proud, independent old-timers,
Of builders, who learned to use what was there.

They never puzzled with meaningless number-games,
balancing figures that live on a screen;
they used their hands to build this for our legacy -
and it still stands, and remains to be seen.

 

(© 1996-2008 Maria L. Grist)

 

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