Shed

The air is bruised by the blast of fireworks

and the dusk smells faintly of gunpowder

though it’s weeks until Guy Fawkes.

Straight ahead

a gravelly lane separates

two rows of gardens,

and despite Google Maps telling me to

turn right,

I cut through it, back into town,

down towards the sea.

In one garden,

a greenhouse with mouldy windows.

In another,

a collection of toys piled into a pyramid.

In the next,

a stack of deckchairs and folding tables.

But near the end of the lane

is a ramshackle shed,

its door ajar,

overshadowed by an abandoned house –

no lights on inside,

ivy like lace across its windows.

I slip through a gap in the fencing,

push open the door to the shed,

slip inside.

It is strewn with rusting cans of paint,

a split bag of cement.

Heavy tools hang from hooks;

the one small window looking on to the lane

is curtained over with a torn cardigan.

I can use my jumper as a pillow.

I can lie with my feet against the door.

There are worse harbours.