Any moment now the door will fall,
the aching walls subside too far, and shed
integrity as if it were a flimsy
shawl and crumble, decaying ribs and all.

But just before we say last rites we pause,
inside this chest a fluttering heart still beats,
a hint of sound echoes within. And look,
out pops red chest adorned with nesting straw.

Our garden shed is on its last legs, and yet again its end is stayed as a robin is nesting within.
(28.04.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Catriona Finlay on Unsplash