The Old Potting Shed

Down at the end, beside the cold frame and hedgerow
There lies a fair haven of gardening grace
Much littered with tools, both tactile and time-worn
Old, paper-wrapped tubers and cobwebs like lace.

Spring brings a flurry of sewing and potting
All carried out gladly, while the radio plays
Dreams of sweet flowers and fruit, soon to follow
Are dreamed as the sun sets on lengthening days.

Ah, wonderful smells of sage and spring onions
Are mingled with basil and thyme’s lemon zest
Hot cups of coffee leave rings, on the workbench
While shabby old armchair provides welcome rest.

Now greenhouse gives birth, to first of the season
But here’s where each new life is tended with care
Colors bring promise that sunshine approaching
Will soon put an end to the chill in the air.

This is my place, full of magic and secrets
Where spells of renewal and nurture are cast
Unsung in Winter, protecting in silence
Just waiting for Springtime to come round at last.
Mary Ann Love