Love, Comradeship, Community Are Man's Compensations. All The Poet Can Do Is To Warn!
There's A Shotgun In The Cellar
It’s harder than you think to disappear, To lose yourself, then reappear, with no trace of why, Or what went before. You can get lulled into a false sense of security, Become blasé about the little things. Like never answering the phone when it rings. There was a shotgun in the cellar, wrapped in hessian sack, I took it out a while ago, intending to put it back. When we first came here, I had some grand idea of self-sufficiency, You know, living off the land. When you live out in the country, everything’s a risk. The weather can turn and set you back. Few people know of this old dirt track. There’s a shotgun in the cupboard, no one knows it’s there. It’s well concealed in a cubbyhole, underneath the stairs. The old shoe box has three cartridges in it, lubricating oil, And a special tool for cleaning the breach, High up on the top shelf, out of reach. You can’t be too careful with a child around. I have more time on my hands now, since my last little venture failed. But the summer has been glorious, This is a special place to be when the sun rises over the river, Early in the morning. But things can change without warning. It’s like that when you’re on the run; I always knew they’d come. There’s a shotgun on the table, my wife and son safe in bed. The neighbours said they heard a truck backfire 3 times, Or it could have been poachers, after rabbit and partridge. I can feel warm steel from the barrel as I load the last cartridge. The smell of gunpowder on my clothes We left before daylight, nothing unusual in that. It’s not a 9 to 5 existence around here, People come and go at the strangest of times. Mending fences and digging holes. There’s a shotgun in the cellar, how it got there, no one knows!
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