The shed jingles like a plumber’s
pocket full of nuts and washers.
Wooden sides sigh in their heaving.

Bird boxes tick-tock their way through
the night. The one-nail hinge allowing
a swing from east to west.

A bucket tumbles, then rolls in a half-circle
before becoming wedged. Bird feeders’
candles flicker as they grip the washing line.

A loose piece of wood taps the shed roof.
Silver puddles grow in pot holes. Birds sit in
angles of branches, swaying like ship sails.

All is not well, as our gusts blow into
each other. We are two fighting clouds.
Only when our hearts have tired do we

see the destruction outside. The wreckage
of photo albums, kissed lips, forgotten
presents. We have created this place

so now we must clear it up.

Gareth Culshaw lives in North Wales. He enjoys walking, reading, being with his dogs, and nature watching.

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