A shed's a place
where cobwebs lace the corners
and the window frames where spiders reign,
where bees squat and mice die
privately in winter.
A shed's a place
where chairs and tools stiffen and rust,
where fust and must and dust ferment
and splinters soften through the seasons.
A shed's a place
where time drips and creeps,
where wood-stain spills and seeps
and fades with the days and the years.
But not here,
not in this palace of a shed,
this chapter of a shed,
this graceful pagoda of a shed,
this pavilion.
Here's a space for congress and debate,
for beer and wine and coffee in the morning.
Here's a place to view the best that England has,
to see the willow and hear the echo
of summer's finest sound come
sifted on the airways and the breeze
with butterfly stutter and dragon-fly blaze.
Here's a place where sparrows
scratch a scurried sonata,
where blackbirds pose and pigeons fatten.
Here's a place to feast yourself
on colours scents and sights
that sometimes seem as rare as cuckoo flight.
