Locked down in the Manshed 2. A poem by Eamonn Fitzgerald

The big spiders scuttled
And spun dusty webs
To the sound of the birds outside.

I sat in my Manshed
Watching dust motes float by
Thinking about cutting my hair.

Locked down many weeks
And the honey-do list done
I pondered what to do next.

I’d done all the painting
And cleaned all the dirt
And fixed the old wonky seat.

I jumped up from my bench
And went out into the sun
And realised how lucky I am.


I own a Manshed where I make stuff and think about stuff.

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