The Shed
Standing in Dad's private empire,
every corner echoes early memories,
his essence tied up in a cache
of plant bulbs sitting in a box.
The light bulb hangs lifeless at the flick
of its switch, drained of all its energy
long ago, just like Dad.
The world was kept at bay
by dirty windows; bringing him peace
and quiet at the end of a day filled
with unfiltered, industrial noise.
On the bench his reading glasses rest
upon a pile of old newspapers, reading
yester - years news. And a box of plasters lay
next to a hammer, proving Dad's imperfections.
And that lingering aroma of tobacco
that gave endless hours of contemplative
smoke, wrapped around his pipe.
Whilst a broom stands idle in a corner,
regimental and heartless,
ready to sweep away
tied together scenes
of essence and soul.
He's never coming back.
Echoes are all that remain
of a decent man and loving father.
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