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,

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; you never know when they’ll 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