Shack

In the corner of the field, a lone shack stands,
Its timber weathered by rain and wind,
A modest refuge where quiet hands
Find shelter from the world’s unrest.

Inside, the scent of old pine lingers,
Flickering lanterns cast a soft glow,
Whilst stories drift on creaking floorboards,
Echoes of laughter, low and slow.

When night draws its dark curtain tight,
The shack holds fast, a humble keep,
Guardian of dreams and gentle night,
Where peace resides, though walls are steep.