It stood at the bottom of the garden,
Old creosote worn wood chipped.
Time rusting away its thin hinges
That holds the door in place.
Inside cobwebs hang like faded
Curtains in far corners whose
Occupants crawl between plant-pots
And rusted tins of screws and nails.
A toothed rake and hoe stand talking
In one corner with a rusting spade
Among shelves with paint pots and old
Coffee jars containing nuts and bolts.
An electric mower with spaghetti lines
Hide behind a wooden bench that had
A vice bolted firmly at one end waiting
For work opposite a dusty window.
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