Dad’s Garden Shed

When I was young, Dad’s garden shed
Had lots of things to turn one’s head.
Chisels, mallets, pots of nails,
Windscreen wipers, cricket bails.
Balls of twine all in a tangle,
Mum’s old broken, rusty mangle,
Flowerpots and broken china,
Parts of our old Morris Minor,
Ancient packs of cards and games,
Bicycle and deckchair frames,
Bits of piping, planks of wood,
Anorak with mouldy hood,
Ciggy cards and hardback books,
Dirty jam jars, Dinky trucks,
Woven mat for garden kneeling,
Onions hanging from the ceiling,
Potatoes all encased in muck,
Carpet beater on a hook,
Rakes and spades and hoes and trowels
To be cleaned with grubby towels,
Everything so brilliant when
Dad’s shed became my garden den.

Now I’m old, my garden shed
Is merely functional instead.