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UP THE GARDEN SHED
Up the shed my little throne,
A place I go to be alone,
Work to do that is not there,
Just to sit there in my chair.
Out the window I can stare,
Dreaming thinking whilst aware,
Passing time deep in thought,
Practicing crafts I’ve been taught.
My surrounds are machines and tools,
For every job they do them all,
Creations made with my bare hands,
Behold the wonder wood has found.
When winter light falls to dark,
The shed is calling from the start,
A fire there to keep me warm,
Yet snow outside is on the lawn.
So tender feelings that I have,
Leave me glowing, feeling proud,
Up the garden straight ahead,
Is the place I call the shed.
By B Kingsford Copy Write 2,004
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