Jeremy Haworth

Long Gone

The farm shed is a jangle of broken pipes, scrap iron and discarded tools. Sunlight stains through hangnail slats in the roof and walls. The air is heavy with the pong of pigeon shit and spilled diesel. Machine parts caked with dust. Defunct electrics. Broken furniture.
 
Stored in the corner is an old teak wardrobe. Lot 156 chalked on the door. An auction leftover. Pulled from the bedroom of a condemned hotel, somewhere in the rainy midlands, many years ago.
 
Curiosity tugs. I set down the wrench. Clamber over the wreckage, shunt open the wardrobe door. Woodworm holes. The smell of damp and mothballs. Inside the right-hand door, etched hard into the surface with blue ballpoint:

Farewell Farewell
Sӧren Madsen
21/10/1979

I smell the sour odour in the hotel lobby, long gone. See mildew spots, gaudy carpet, bathroom fittings in pink Formica and avocado. In the bedroom where the wardrobe belonged, a slice of uneaten toast on a mustard-yellow plate, rain patterns on the window. A young man slumped, the heat of something lethal racing in his blood.

pale fire moon
a bonfire of poppies
on the slag

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About the Author

Jeremy Haworth lives in rural Ireland, where he keeps an organic market garden. Recent work has appeared in Drifting Sands and The Haibun Journal. He is working towards the publication of his first collection of haibun, due out later this year.

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