The Hutch

I’ve been writing a lot about childhood lately. Luckily I had a blissful time growing up on the north side of Cork city in Ireland. I’m thinking of calling my next book of poems ‘North Side Pastoral’. I think many poets and authors write a lot about their childhood as those memories die hardest.

This is a memory of my father that I shaped into a poem. Hope you like it. The ending is a bit weak I think but, for me, there comes a time with every poem when you must just stop and put down the pen.

The Hutch

By David Jordan


The Hutch


All day long he laboured and


His hands letting him down.


In the end

He cobbled together a

Shoddy, temporary house

Inside of which

The rabbit crunched on his

Lettuce contentedly.

We watched in silence for a while

And then my father began to

Laugh quietly.

For he was a quiet man and


Though he rarely laughed and

Always surpressed his smile.


The next day

He built a fine hutch

In no time,

His hands returned to form

Though there was no more laughter.


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