In the lost huts of memory
Which once were the future, he hides
Under his broad-brimmed hat
Of distrust, the recluse.
His ink stains the
Poor paper which curls at the
Edges and cockles in places when
Touched tenderly, carefully
He doubts in his skin of paint;
For once put down in that place
Time will smoulder in dead leaves
And ceaseless scoffing will not do.