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By Ivor Griffiths
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Fugitive is,
standing in a brick outhouse
in the middle of a wood,
water ankle deep, a toilet seat covered in shit,
sticky damp leaves pattern the porcelain, brown and black.
Now hiding from the mob; whose thoughts he squeezed
peering through windows, a blur through steam,
revealed sleaze to his intrusions, that he noted
with scriveners detail, in a fine archaic hand, so
they chased him out,
to cower, with wet feet, in a shithouse,
looking through broken windows,
at woods damp, brown, green and misty.
He liked the pungent stinging smell
of damp pine sawdust,
plain white walls and wood chip wall paper,
but the best of times were outdoors:
walking alone, in fine rain,
spying on the rat catcher,
watching the rats in his sack, squirming like ferrets
till their necks were snapped.
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