The Potting Shed

The Potting Shed

Sue stands there in the potting shed,
A stray grey lock falls from her head.
Clings to the face that bears her grief
A tear escapes-drops on a leaf.

She wipes her face with sullied hand,
which leaves a brown and tear stained band,
Then taps the pot filled to the crown,
to settle the new compost down.

She stood where he’d stood most his life,
With basket, scissors, pruning knife,
The potting shed his place of death,
where Jim had drawn his final breath.

Sue liked it here, it felt so good.
and helped her cope with widowhood,
To be around the things he’d touched,
like the old brown coat she tightly clutched.

High in the roof the baskets hang,
with scythes and shears – the whole shebang,
Seed trays piled upon the table,
stretching up toward the gable.

The dusty deckchairs hung from hooks,
she smiled at just how long it took,
to get them right, so they could sit,
how Jim would curse and almost quit.

His mud stained journal on the bench,
the list of items he’d entrench,
deep in his mind until he’d need,
to recall each and every seed.

Standing there, she shivers and quakes,
among the spades, the hoes and rakes,
Labels and pots, were fading fast,
Ghosts and memories from the past.

Those memories are all that’s left,
his death last year left her bereft,
The seeds she’d sown, she thought to save,
in bloom, they’d decorate his grave.