Grandad's Shed (Poetry)

It leaned as though exhausted — tired and worn
like an old man with walking stick askew
the greening timbers warped, the roof felt torn
the door hung crooked, catches out of true.

The window, small and cobwebbed, greyed with grime
stayed shut against the junk piled high within —
the broken flower pots, odd skeins of twine
and cardboard boxes crammed with everything

his bungalow had grown too small to house
so gradually the shed had no more room
no space to swing a cat or give a mouse
a place to hide inside its sloping gloom.

It was a mystery how it still stood
at such a crazy angle all that time
for without its contents it most likely would
have toppled over — given in — resigned

to gravity. But no, it weathered on
as though it had a mind to persevere.
If they’d a bet, it was the shed that won
outlasting Grandad by about a year.