Starting to shiver from the rain

The fugitive figure looks at the shape

It has to be better than the last refuge,

Full of scorn and the threat of a raised fist.

What promise does a head lain

Here in a corner of a musty barn

The rodents versus the promises of a boot

Listen acuutely for another

Wanting only to be alone and unmolested

Head wrapped in a cloak, breath fogging and sore back resting on hay,

Sleep fitfully comes on.