Stood to attention by the privet hedge,

Upright and strong, stately patient and calm,

The Grenadier Guard of the garden shed,

Silently you await the call to arms.

Attired in shades of greys and ochered steel,

Muted uniform becomes camouflage.

And yet so vibrant in flesh hands you feel,

Happy in your work, well weathered old sage.

When grain sits against palm, your voice is heard,

Muscles and rich baritone harmonise.

How indulgent, the joy of moving earth,

When two become one, toiling time flies by.

They say a bad workman will blame his tools,

For certain, bad workmen are simple fools.

 

Please do leave me your thoughts and comments, in praise or constructive criticism, I appreciate them all and will reply.