The Shed

It stood at the bottom of the garden, Old creosote worn wood chipped. Time rusting away its thin hinges That holds the door in place. Inside cobwebs hang like faded Curtains in far corners whose Occupants crawl between plant-pots And rusted tins of screws and nails. A toothed rake and hoe stand talking In one corner with a rusting spade Among shelves with paint pots and old Coffee jars containing nuts and bolts. An electric mower with spaghetti lines Hide behind a wooden bench that had A vice bolted firmly at one end waiting For work opposite a dusty window.