The shed was an apex all-wood
erected that furnace of a summer
when we burnt in the shade
and our feet turned to leather,
a backdrop of screaming swifts
swooping like mad dot banshees
in the forget-me-not blue.
We stood back and admired
the woody quality of its sturdiness,
overlooked the imperfections;
worth the blisters and swearing,
seed drawers alphabetically labelled,
garden tools hanging in place,
as we toasted our cleverness
and soaked in the homebrew.
Beginnings then followed:
new this, new that, till the shed
became part of the scenery
while the expert moved in,
ostensibly preoccupied en route,
unnoticed, overwintering in a crack,
casing the joint for suitability
and tasting the wood like a connoisseur.
As we prepared for the year,
quietly, purposefully, she graced our space,
moved in, gnawed, chewed, sculpted,
moistly applying the axioms of Euclid,
compound eye, to mandible, to shed,
a blur of buzzing, preoccupied industry
constructing a near spherical beauty
while laying dynastic foundations
we felt privileged to observe.