So many warm afternoons
spent in my Grandad’s endless garden
Home to my first and only treehouse
when air-raid siren tests
still filled those Northern streets 

And most magical of all
the rough lumber shed he’d built
A place of wooden-handed tools
you had to carefully maintain with oil
tools that would have been his grandad’s

A place where big furry bees
chose to die with dignity
b...

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its a far cry from Bucharest

in this dark and earthy shed,

thinks of her tearful mother

the man she's shortly to wed

draughts slice wooden walls,

rats scuttering in the hay-loft,

rubbing her hands for warmth

tells herself not to be so soft

slim candles shadow the gloom,

bloke appears in muddy boots,

shoving his wheelbarrow in a

mini-forest of sprouting ro...

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