A sanctuary: a cobwebbed cave:
A cache of cold and ill-used tools.
Dumped wood slats amidst a maze
Of pots and tins and dried paint pools
In undisturbed, dark creepy nooks
For spiders and those beasts from worlds,
Where forgotten mildewed books
Provide the ideal home in furls
Of papers, and with grateful gloved hands
I hunt for spade and trowel and rake.
Finally to face demands
Of this Spring garden now awake.