Poem: The Old Shed

gray shed on white and green field near trees during daytime
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

In my head I still make the journey
to your shed, to quiver at those
huge summer spiders and smell

the creosote and guano, to wonder
at your tools all cleaned and
oiled, a hanging display of your mind.

But now through this filthy
fissured window,
the late butter sun gleams low – and look

there she is, bent over,
with the tin bath I bathed in as a boy. And
there’s our washing to take in

copyright Francis Barker 2019

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