Lost Tools

You ought to have had a shed, moss musty,

You would keep some rank booze there

Which we would drink from chipped cups

Rinsed in the water butt

Not clean but clean enough

Because this is my idea of being a dad

Borrowed from an old idea of yours,

An apparition out of doors,
A bonfire curling lazy late daylight skeins

Around knock-knees and varicose veins

You ought to have had a shed,

Where the tools could wait for me

And might have forced

My unskilled hands to work

At the sweat black wooden handles,

Not clean but clean enough

Those tools in their oiled sack bag could tell

Of hands that dished out lollipops

Shot unthinkingly at hotentots

And steered a wounded Hurricane back

To medals, the cold metal applause of wars

The tools are gone,

And although they’re probably in use

They don’t have a story,

Beyond this one of loss;

You had no place to put them,

No shed, musty as moss

But a garage crammed,

Not clean, but clean enough.