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
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,
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.
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