John I. Blair
Half-hidden by the holly
At the dark end of my garden,
Held erect by trust and time,
Years of grime, slug slime,
It's filled up past the safety line
With musty piles of pots and litter.
Spiders festoon corners with their webs,
Geckos skitter on the ceiling,
Beetles sport around the floor.
The door's supported by a single wheel
Worn square. The rest, a rusty cart,
Some dull tools, leaning shelves.
I go there to select a hoe, a spade,
Load up on planting soil or compost,
Mull on my folly.
(c)2004 John I. Blair
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