Beyond the brook, in the woods, there are huts.
Grey, empty eyed, with crumbling mouths,
scattered, separated, almost forgotten.
They sit alone, abandoned and abused,
besieged by pine and birch.
Ignored by walkers, they wait for soldiers, long from war
and as they fall, the scavengers come, to strip away any worth
until all that’s left, are empty shells, and broken bones
slowly rusting into the earth.
I’m writing about home again tonight. Dotted around my parent’s farm are a number of old army huts that I knew were once part of an RAF base, but were crumbling away to ruin. It turns out that my parents farm was partially built on an army base that was constructed in 1915 and served a fair few purposes over the years, including a prisoner of war camp at one point. My first few driving lessons actually took place on two of the three runways that made up the airfield, one on our neighbour’s land and one that runs along the edge of my parent’s farm.
If you’re interested here’s a link to the Wikipedia page. Despite living beside those huts for twenty-one years I don’t seem to have any photos, I’ll have to have a wander around them next time I’m in the area and take some so I can show you. I might even whip out the old history head and do a post with footnotes and sources! Until then I hope the poem suffices.
Oh, and it’s in response to tonight’s DVerse Poet’s challenge to write a piece using Trimeter. I think I managed it.