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.