Amongst the tins of nails and things
Is where Granddad and me
Turned his shed into a church
Of masculinity
No female bothered to intrude
Into our sacred space
Content in manly solitude
Or in shared state of grace
Tobacco oil and creosote
This temple's incense clung
To perfumed piny wooden walls
Where voodoo gas masks hung
Where priestly purple bottled meths
Along with tins of screws
And ancient saws and chisels stayed
That I never saw him use
This shed was never made for work
But built for sanctuary
Where we both took communion
Of biscuits with our tea
And I soaked up crumbs of knowledge there
Behind the creaking door
Expounding on the day to day
Or times before the war
On shelves where ghosts of laughter slept
Decayed to sooty dust
Time wrapped around those memories
Like moss and creeping rust
But in that sleep the truth of dreams
Seeped into limber walls
Until by simply breathing in
Each one could be recalled
Intending to rebuild his shed
When Granddad passed away
Dismantled it too turned to dust
Till just three planks remained
So one for him and one for me
And one for lives and schemes
That overlap each history
Aboard this ship of dreams
