The caravan had looked as though
it had seen better times, possibly after the end of
World War Two and may have indeed been used
for target practice by some lonely, bored,
over fifty year old look out
on the Kent countryside
weary of the night ahead but too concerned
for the welfare of the desperate fox stalking the half
blind mole rooting
through the roots and undergrowth
to take a shot at the flash of red
and earn a couple of shillings
from a grateful farmer
who might even throw in a chicken for the lads on the front;
it may have looked like a relic but for six months
it was a home, compact, snug, brutal, cold, wind
snapping allowed to come through the small
rivets that corroded and displaced…
but it was a home in which in to listen
to my own thoughts, kiss a beautiful woman
who thought they could savour
the night of rough offered
and keep out of the way of civilisation.
From the caravan’s point of view,
it could have had a better tenant,
one that didn’t place the burden
of five hundred albums down
on its creaking boards, held together with spit
and the dynamic of rust,
it could have easily lived without the insanity
of musing of a squandered hopeless line
filled with teenage angst, filled
with desperation and nightmares
at its time of life and the stuck carbolic soap
that littered its tiny washroom,
enough room to stand,
no shower and the passing resemblance to a sink
that made the tin bath I was washed in
as a child seem elegant and ornate.
We lived side by side for six months
until as always something new came upon the scene,
the female equivalent of a beautiful starlet
living on faded beauty and memorable scenes
but one who could still captivate in rose red soft
light and offer a courteous bosom in which to lay
one’s head
and the six month affair with the bedsit,
four times the size of the caravan and with shared
bathroom and dodgy heater pumping out carbon
was a palace which made the caravan,
beak down and weep for its lost love.
I saw the caravan not long back,
It looked in better shape than I felt,
proving that it was able to move on
and had forgotten about me;
whereas I
had always thought fondly of her.
Ian D. Hall 2015