A short but sweet poem by Mary Hayward, inspired by a return to the derelict farm where she grew up. Illustrated by Tim Laing.

It sags from the rafters, in the museum of the byre,
like he’d just shrugged it off, in the October of his life.
Spiders have spun, big hairnets of webs
on the collar and shoulders of his once best coat,
now spark-holed and cold, like snow-holes in thaw.
And inside his pockets, grass seed and nails.
Whispers of pipe smoke, return him to me
with his eye to the sky, his soul to the soil.

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