PROCRASTINATION
The old shed, in the corner, shadowed now
by sycamores and beech leaves, dark and cool,
waits for the sun to climb above that bough,
beam in through cobwebbed windows, warm the tools'
smoothed handles, ready for my hands. I wait
a little longer for the heavy heat,
leave spades alone until it is too late,
let spiders silk them over. Sacks of peat
spill open, compost dries; the smell of sheds
at noon is like a manacle. I'm trapped
by broken rakes, empty seed trays. My head
buzzes with sleep-thoughts...musty...must...perhaps...
    I dream of camomile; now need to mow
    my cruel lawn today - or tomorrow.