The Old Shed

Last week we demolished a shed.  This brought back memories of an early poem (c. 1968) written about my grandfather's abandoned shed.  More shed stuff to follow, meanwhile here is the poem:

Broken glass crunches underfoot
Together with rusty screws and nuts
Scattered with the careless abandon
Of those whose property it is not.

Somebody has tried to light a fire in the middle of the floor
For there is a charred hole where whoever it was
decided to stamp it out.

Forsythia pushes its enquiring sprays
Through the chinks in the wooden walls,
Like ivy.

Here there was once a desk,
All that remains now a few shattered pieces  of wood
And countless bills.
Bills for the sale of bricks
Or wood, or seeds, or tools.
Torn and scattered.
Some still have old stamps on them.

The vandals have taken everything
All the cupboards are empty
Nothing of value left,
Just a wooden, broken shell,
Of a shed.

Roosters

March birdsong is growing in volume and variety on the allotment.  As I finished cutting back and manuring the autumn raspberries I had a melodious accompaniment from robins, blackbirds and bluetits.  And two roosters.

The rival roosters domiciled somewhere to the south of our plot were sounding each other out.  It was a classic cock-a-doodle-doo contest.  I surmise this, though I have no idea where they are cooped up.  I couldn't identify their perch.  One predator in particular however, would be delighted to know.  As I walked back from a quick site inspection of the daffodils a fox slunk through the fence to my right. 

The sound of our folk history is still rings in our ears.  As I end I issue another little challenge.  See how many crafty fox and roistering rooster tales you can recollect.  From Chaucer to Chicken-Licken.  Then locate the other one.  In that story the rooster crows three times.