The Shed

Waiting for afternoon
when I visit, tea in one hand
crossword in the other.

Rows of last year’s seeds parade on the shelf
by the window, cobwebs high and tight.
Mulchy  tobacco odours mingle in mooted sunbeams.
Garden tools hung neatly on nails, the workbench clear
save for the jars of nuts and screws and old mug rings.

Exiled carpet, stiff with fatigue,
plant pots are the only pattern left,
the wooden stool  moulded with old-age-grooves
and joints that grumble,
stands next to bottled rhubarb and elderberry
dusty and vibrant,  drinking in summers past.