There’s a smell about my garden shed in summer
a warm wood smell with undertones of earth.
The orange box now free of dahlia tubers
stands on it’s end with cushion on it’s top.
It makes a smashing place to sit and think
while pricking out my seedlings into trays.
Quiet is the way I like my shed.
For noise I go indoors and it commences.
“Watch where you step you’ve got dirt on your feet.”
“Don’t sit down on my rocker in those clothes.”
“I’ve just filled that sink to wash up all these pots.”
“Don’t touch that kettle with those dirty hands.”
“Why can’t you just give notice of the time you’re coming in.”
“And don’t bang the door…I’ve a cake in the oven.”
Back in my shed it’s quiet now,
I need a ‘primus’ stove in here.
When I dare go back indoors
I’ll change and go and buy one.
“Why aren’t you in your kitchen doing baking.”
“Do you have to keep on coming down to talk?”
“Can’t you get a whiteboard by the back door,
write down the things you think I need to know.”
What’s happened to my peace? Where has it gone?
People turn up any time with cups and flaming papers,
they sit on upturned buckets and on plant pots,
then she arrives with cakes and bags of crisps.
“I doubt you’ll ever get another orange box.”
“I’ve had this one in here for donkeys years.”
“Now off you go and have yourself some me time.”
“I’ll see you later on in time for lunch.”
“Oh bring a stool then and a picnic if you have to,
but please don’t come till after half past twelve.”
I think I need a clock here in this shed
to tell me how much peace time I’ve got left.
I’ll take her out this afternoon and buy one
and a whiteboard and a closed sign for this door.
But do you know the thing really grieves me.
Peace doesn’t actually work well, under pressure.
Elaine Morris (c) May 2015.