THAT'S MY AFFAIR
The world's well lost - and won - in my new shed,
the sexy one, Valencia, glazed, now up
to take spare, secret time on French deck-chairs.
It's the epitome of all elsewheres:
illicit Plymouth gins; or extra cups
of morning-after caffeine; Li-lo beds
(with an inflator) for late afternoon;
no clock, no calendar; one side shuts out
censorious houses as I drink to flowers.
The lichened sundial has slipped the hours
since it last rained and yet I fear no drought:
I suck on eau-de-vie in my cocoon.
My dog's still doubtful; she will not come in,
she stands right by the door of my old shack,
the one that holds potatoes, tools and chores,
the lawn mower, pond-net ... the pinafore
I'll wear to garden when someone comes back
and asks me where I was through thick and thin.
