Not quite On Walden Pond

It is not quite Thoreau and his log hut on Walden Pond
But it’s modern hobo avatar
The darkness of the still water could well be sheer, frank dirt
Even sewage
And the broken down, dilapidated shed
Has mosquitoes from the swamp next to it
Hovering , waiting for juicy stings sunk into pale quivering city flesh
This is a tin shed
A corrugated iron lean- to
Next to a filthy dark pond
Is it just an outdoor privy ?
Could well be .
O the desolation of those tangled tufts of drying grasses and reeds stretching into the grey horizon !
Whence the eye is only too desperate to return
To known evils- stink , disease and rottenness
The fat slimy creepy lizard
The relative comfort of wood
Even when rotting flaking dying
and inhabited by hundreds woodlice
The greater the penetration of the lice into the flaking layers of their food
The greater the size and fear of endearment Close embraces can be suffocatingly lethal
Survival has strange parameters and devices

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