The Shed

P1170011Wade through piles of crackling brown leaves underfoot,
Dusty cracks of sunlight peek through warped tiles.
The broken window, frames a craggy brown trunk,
Green leaves drop its greetings.
Thin twine weaves waving arms alongside peeling paint.
Dried yellow stains drip down the once clean walls,
Signalling its furry owner’s home,
Smells of death and life and petrol fume.
A muffled movement above alerts an urgency
To touch a dusty old box, lift it high,
Hook the web of a black hairy, spider who scurries away.
The box returned to its spot on a soggy leafed floor where,
A road of ants escape toward the open door.
Remnants of a small animal lies in the corner,
Amongst the boxes, paint tins and tools standing to attention.
A truck gurgles a gearchange; children squeal nearby.
Desperately clutch the web from misbehaving frizzy curls,
Nostrils flare from the waft of a pungent smell.
Try to hasten forward, yet thwarted by the junk of things past.
But the shuffle above galvanises a resolve
To forget the dirt and dust encased on skin.
A bird flies in and settles in its nest on the ladder,
Her smugness complete and comfortable.
Eyes meet, its message unmistaken
To submit to a relief of defeat,
And the beckon of procrastination.

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