The Grey Train

THE POTTING SHED

As I open the door I see the tools of a gardenmans trade
Held aloft on nails as trophies
The smell of dry earth hints at this persons pride
And warms the air in this dark place

Assorted pots waiting for salvation
To be planted and used again
To display the rewards of this persons
Daily toil

The spade left on the bench
Shows imprints of the hands of a loving carer
Its grey shaft redeemed by the polished silver end
Used to dig the land of baron earth

Old seed packets left
Showing the gardenmans growing hopes
Of ambitious planting
I wonder what was in their mind
A formal garden or wild place where flowers spring in abundance

A small radio propped in the corner
Seems alien in this quiet world
Connecting with a life so far from this quiet insular place
To disturb the peace with noises of willow and grunts of tennis

And so it is I leave this place
Feeling like I have intruded on someones life
A private, quiet one away from daily worries
At the end of the garden like a shrine of escapism
In a world of chaos