The Garden Shed
He used to go down to the garden shed
To get away from her talking and his compromising , he said
The shed was so tidy
All the tools in their place
Cleaner and more ordered than many people's homes.
He used to gaze from the small window in the garden shed,
Listen to the trains roaring by over the nearby railway bridge
I'll be on one of those trains one day, he said,
Get away from here forever, he vowed.
Outside were all the tulips in an orderly row
Neatly trimmed rose bushes, pearly white and red,
Tomatoes and strawberries in pots
Consumed at Sunday lunch
And he sat in that rickerty chair, not wanting any company.
He used to go down to the garden shed,
He's passed away now so I go there instead.
There's a padlock on the door but it doesn't work,
It can't keep me out, can't bar the nostalgia I feel.
I want to taste his loneliness,
His contentment at being alone
Escaping from the family every now and then,
From being that man they didn't really understand
But the one who brought the money in.
I listen to the high speed train dashing over the ancient bridge,
Gaze out of the narrow window,
Just the way he did,
Looking across at the back doors that enclose the family,
Safely locked away from this view,
For My Grandfather.