The nice and coldly correct people
from the social department
came to his cabin in the glen,
told him that they had a place for him
at the aged peoples home down the valley.
He didn’t want to go:
“It’s summer now, I’ll be there in the fall.”

No, we might not have a place for you then,
a week they gave him to pack his things.
Smiled they did the patronising grin of do-gooders
who think that those who don’t live nice middle class lives
like them are deficient and need their help.

At sunset he opened a bottle of red,
took a handful of sleeping pills
washed down with wine,
poured paraffin on the kitchen floor
followed by a lit match.
Flames roared when he closed the door.
Drowsy sat in his armchair fell asleep
dreaming of a Viking chief’s funereal