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.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem
I have just been in a Shed just like the one your describing David! But it was loved once but left with just memories now. You have written a wonderful poem and all you have to do is close your eyes and you can picture being inside this rusty old building. I like the tools chatting away very surreal!