There’s a shed in my garden, behind the beech hedge
That divides off the flowers and lawn from the veg.
There’s a clutter of seed trays, plant labels and twine
And the overall smell is of dust and old pine.
There’s an overstuffed armchair, set facing the door,
Where I often relax amongst plant pots galore.
So I often nip in if it comes on to rain;
Kick the mud off my boots; let the chair take the strain.
On my trusty, old stove I can brew up some tea
And then sit back and balance my mug on my knee.
There’s a biscuit supply in a battered, old tin,
But they don’t last for long once I start to dip in!
I can watch little acts — as though part of a play —
Like the robin that pops in to see me each day,
Or the backdrop of clouds that drift lazily by
While the resident spider’s devouring a fly.
There’s a shelf to one side full of old magazines
With wealth of old pictures of countryside scenes
And idyllic descriptions of halcyon days
Before progress decreed that we’d have motorways.
My old radio’s there — for the weather and news —
Though I often don’t bother and just have a snooze
When I dream of the day when all conflict will cease
And we live in a world of harmonious peace.
It’s place to be private with no one around
And I’m able to think as there’s scarcely a sound.
Just the twitter of birds and the buzzing of bees;
It’s as if they’re all doing their utmost to please.
It’s a wonderful place to relax and unwind
From the everyday problems that clutter the mind.
In a mad, crazy world there’s a lot to be said
For the solace and peace of my old garden shed.