One leg and the shed

He fiddled about in his shed,
an old haggard man with one leg,
doodling on paper and writing scripts,
carving heads out of rotting tree stumps,
making fishing rods for the local lads,
cutting dolls in prams for the local girls,
a car hit him when he was young,
cut him short in his prime,
his shed was his home,
a home full of knives and things in bottles,
bits that hang from the roof,
stuff that smells and stuff thats coloured,
he let me join him,
sometimes that is,
when he was not in pain,
sometimes he laughed,
that's when he lets me in,
now the shed has gone,
and so have I.

Poetry by Mick Bean
Read 541 times
Written on 2017-11-05 at 12:31

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Shame both have gone, I would have gladly payed him and his shed a visit. I feel you need a shed