His Shed

The door sticks, wood swollen from rain. I tug until it’s release prompts an exhalation of creosote and dust.

I stand as you did against a bench of rusted tins, bits and bobs, a curation of things kept for just in case.

And an envelope, pretty stamp, address from two houses back. It feels lumpy. Nestling inside little jewelled beans. Saved and dried from last year’s crop.

A memory whispers from a cobwebbed corner of seeds you found after your Dad’s funeral in his shed.

I’ll take them home. Sow to remember. And probably dry some for next year’s crop.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s