The shed, built from
ammunition cases and furniture
drinks the essence of sunshine and adventure
in smoking dusty columns
Jam jars of rusty relics
hung by their lids from formica shelves
diffract and twinkle
Pram wheels, fixed
to a cruciform frame
recall the scrape and scream
of downhill madness
and a chuntering mower
reclines in oiled ooze
with essence of lawn
In the petrol air
beneath a cob-web blued
window
dad’s motorcycle
holds my gaze
Castrol, Exide, Champion
Redex, Dunlop
Schrader, Hypoy, Reynolds -
it reads like a biking bible
The oil patch,
black, bleeding, dusty
The paint-scrapes
and boz-eyed bezel
The blackened exhaust,
smutty and silent
The fizzy wig ends of worn wiring
and bakelite switch
the smoothrubbed handlebar grips
all collude with a burning ambition
to test the kick start…
my foot explores the swing-out lever