Don’t Tidy It Up
Behind the barn
On a small hummocky strip of green
Beside the track to the heath
Lies an old sheet of corrugated iron
How long had it lain there?
Rust down one side
Old nail holes down the other
Don’t tidy it up, he said
In late spring we talked again
On the first of the warmer days
The sun feels good on old bones, he said
On a bright day soon after, he was gone
Next day, I walked the old places alone
I stooped, carefully lifting one metal corner
Small bright eyes, flicking tongues
Coils of shiny copper scales
He knew they would be there
Under the sun-warmed refuge of rusting iron
In the place he always left for them
Don’t tidy it up, he’d said
I won’t
Austin Brady © May 2026
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