The shed was a thing of beauty when it came together,
manifesting from old wood out of three other sheds,
including the donkey house in the field.
Those sheds were themselves made from older ancestor sheds.
There was also an old window frame from the house,
and an old chicken shed door from a friend.
I hammered the nails in creatively,
and a shed of beauty shaped itself.
The shed was a thing of beauty when it de-shedded.
As I unbuilt it I admired the changes ten years had wrought:
here the work of penetrating wet, under failed felt,
creating rotting wood fibre out of once-solid roof planks;
here the hundreds of holes of rampant wood worm,
gorging themselves, leaving dusty tunnelled weakness;
here the bright nails I hammered in, now pulled out,
magically become beautiful rust-brown accretions.
The empty space of potential is now the thing of beauty.
The re-usable wood stored, some rusty nails in a jar,
the window frame leaning against the oil tank: all waiting.
My human energy is currently engaged elsewhere,
but plans are slowly bubbling under,
and the shed-building tradition is deep-rooted.
The next beautiful shed-coming is sure to happen.
I have an idea for a privy…