Welcome to my shed of stone

Larch and slate.

The walls are stuck with skewwhiff post-its

The floor is strewn with paper fists and OS

Maps, manhandled, discarded.

But there’s a hubbling kettle

And two chairs – the skylight’s

Slightly open

To catch the drift of the honeysuckle

And the early butterfly.

Come night, the moon, feted around here,

Like a saucer of shining milk

Spills its chill lucidity

On these white pages,

On which

If all’s well with the world

And the barn owl

I’ll pin my man.

My grandpa’s clock, from quieter times, ticks on.

Stuart Delves