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 a 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 a 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.