Grandad’s Shed Poem by Dan Brown

It sat at the bottom of the garden,
guarded by the apple tree.
The gnarled branches clung to it’s
tin roof and held it close,
protecting it from the World.
It was a rather intimidating structure;
it always appeared battered, bruised and war-torn.
In colder months, though, it looked
so old and fragile, so lonely and forlorn.
Nonetheless, it inspired awe from me,
at the tender age of 7 and 3.
It was so mysterious and secretive,
it was almost mystical and magical,
and my imagination ran wild when
I wondered what was hidden inside.
My Grandad would disappear for hours into it,
I often thought he’d gone to visit another country through it,
but at 4 ‘o’ clock, teatime, his jolly, smiling face was at the table.
Still telling me I couldn’t go inside.
Those words could not last forever, though,
and some time after my Grandad died.
That was when I saw inside.
An old mower, a wireless and tools,
me and my brother were taken for fools.
The magic died with my Grandad’s death,
we no longer needed to hold our breath.
We’d crossed the threshold, been and explored,
its no more than a place for when he was bored.
So now, like my Grandad, that intrigue is dead,
that grand old fortress now a wreck of a shed.