Shed poem…


I’ll tell it to the shed.
It sighed when I entered,
invited me to chat,
say what had happened

from my point of view.
I could smell it meant it –
years of creosote soaked
into timber, its limbs supple,

I want to insulate it,
paint it green,
use it as a writing room.

The potting table will do.
I’ll clean the glass,
rub down the wood –
the broken chair has rustic charm.

At one end I’ll put a screen
to hide the mower
and the oversized tools inherited
from the last owner.

I move the rake, a garden sieve
and sit on his chair.
I’d tip back,
but the legs wobble

and I know they’ll break.
So we sit there,
the shed and me
and I wish I’d brought wine

to share. I’d put it
on the potting table,
maybe light candles,
cosy up to the compost

and say how lost I feel,
how utterly awful
the world is. Its old wood

8 thoughts on “Shed poem…”

  1. I love this poem Abi – we all need places to find such comfort; and I am going to go sit in my little writing cabin/garden shed on the next sunny day, with the door open and tell it about your shed, maybe read the poem to it 🙂 This poem perhaps could also go on your “About” page or your “Poems” page — it would be a lovely part of an intro of your work for visitors to this web site of yours — just a thought. And while I’m thinking along these lines — thank you for The Poetry Shed!!! It’s one of the blogs that I always read when you post something new. Such things take lots of work, and I appreciate what you do.

  2. Oh this is great Abi – it feels so effortless yet gets right under the skin. I have a shed poem too, are you collecting them?

  3. I’ve always loved this poem Abi – one of my favourites in Snow Child. You seem to conjure up the smell brilliantly and the sense of a special place that has a history as well as a future. I shall try to find you a shed poem but it won’t come up to this one.

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