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.