Ian Souter Poet Imagism

The Shed

Grandad’s Domain

The shed sits heavy, sulking in the drowsiness 
of a summer’s waning afternoon.
It had been Granddad's before he died
but now from the shaded, shuffling shadows 
that shush the sheltered garden,
its loneliness reaches out to the boy.

It pulls, tugs at his guilt-filled absence
until he slinks down through the greenery
to stand at attention outside its wooded frame. 
It had been Grandad’s domain, his citadel,
built from leftover bits of wood and insulation
collected, purloined from…whenever, wherever.

Respectively, the boy sneaks the door ajar,
unprepared for the shock that shakes him!
Memories of Grandad unfold themselves everywhere:
chisel, saw, Swedish workbench, unfinished projects
but most of all….Grandad’s flat cap,
angling from a hook like an ageing photograph.

The boy’s skin tightens, his breath narrows
as irreplaceable memories skip into his head;
the alchemy of playfulness, tomfoolery, inventiveness.
Then Grandad’s voice resounds inside the boy’s head, 
“Remember let your imagination think for itself
occasionally dream of left-handed bars of chocolate.”

The boy folds with emotion as he remembers
how his words were shy around others … never Grandad.
He encouraged, sparked a smile that polished him up
like a warming pat on his back, adding a phrase like,
“We’re two forks sharing the same plate, mate!”
 And all, always seemed well.

The boy departs with a rucksack of renewed memories;
a resolve to undertake a new project in Grandad’s shed.
He touches his nose remembering Grandad’s favourite saying,
“Aye, the nose knows, you know!”
And he smiles himself all the way down the garden,
Grandad’s essence living forever in his thoughts.         

Ian Souter

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