Polly

Writings and Witterings

Potting Shed

22 Comments

In the potting shed
the scent of ancient creosote
wafts in the heavy summer heat.
Years of grandpa, pipe in mouth,
leaning against the wall as
grandma wielded the black
brush and yelled ‘get back you
kids,’ followed by her gap-tooth grin.
Her energy lives within the still-
standing walls …
no creosote
now.

Polly Stretton © 2013

Potting shed

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22 thoughts on “Potting Shed

  1. A sweet reflection, Polly, and a lovely photograph.
    Happy Saturday.

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  2. Grandpa did nothing while grandma did all the work? Typical! 😉

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  3. Ah. Creosote. It’s a definite summer smell for me. Seems that’s the only time that any “tarring” was done. Great write, Polly.

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  4. I agree with Misky – creosote is definitely one of those smells!

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  5. A loving tribute, Polly.

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  6. Reblogged this on The Winter Bites My Bones and commented:
    Memories are the canvas…experiences the brush-strokes. This poem, though short, packs a ton of emotion and feeling into its small place on the web. It is a beautiful canvas with bold brushstrokes.

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  7. Endearing poem.:D I love that “her energy lives” 🙂 Been thinking about this a lot lately.

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  8. oh you paint them so clearly…made me smile…

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  9. beautiful poem… taking us there into their lives

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