The Rusty Old Shed
In the heart of suburbia lies an old shed -
it’s worn and rusty holding on by a thread.
The windows are broken; there’s no longer a door
and large puddles of water cover the floor.
I remember when bush babies once lived in there.
I know they don’t now - I see only despair.
Bits and pieces abound from those years long gone by -
I stand in the middle and ask myself, ‘Why?’
Rotting timber scattered - it lies everywhere,
but where has it come from? I cannot see where.
Pieces of glass from the windows, covered in dust;
a verandah of sorts lays waste to the rust.
There’s a wealth of treasure in what can be found
amongst dirt and litter that covers the ground.
Tacked on the walls are photos of long, long ago.
If those walls could talk, would they put on a show?
So many saddles and whips and bridles of old
hanging from rusted hooks, but all neatly rolled.
There are helmets and gloves and some protective gear.
Much of this stuff would make a great souvenir.
There are anvils and hammers and metal galore
waiting to be found on the old mouldy floor.
A furnace in pieces where once horseshoes were made,
a hole in the middle where dust bunnies played.
There are tractors, and ploughs with their tyres threadbare
now standing alone looking much worse for ware.
There’s also strange-looking tools, now rusted with age -
drill bits and spanners I just couldn’t gauge.
Down the back of this shed was a wonderful sight -
a Cobb and Co coach painted Crimson Delight.
Although now covered in dust amongst the debris,
it had once been splendid I’m sure you’ll agree.
And though she was standing there now sad and forlorn,
a refurbished picture of her proud … reborn,
entered my mind, and I can still see her today
moving slowly, with style, down the old highway.
There must be a small fortune I think to myself,
as I look at the treasure left on the shelf.
What had happened, I wondered. Why had they left
with so much of value left open to theft?
I enjoyed looking ‘round; there was so much to see
but I still had to question what made them flee.
No evidence of peril – just vermin lay dead.
What had been the life of the rusty old shed?
© Jakki May #274
31.3.14
