This is the writer’s shed; leaning, derelict.
Rot has set in. Ivy tangles the crumbling walls.
I rip it off, break in through a creaking door
which tilts off its hinges and falls.
There’s an old, old computer
on an older desk.
The monitor, boxy and square,
is cracked and opens into the abyss.
The keyboard is battered at staccato angles.
The E has sprung off and the only letters
visible are Q, X and Z.
In the bin is a dog-eared manuscript,
beside it a box of matches that would not strike.
The thief of the Awen has struck again.
This is the abandoned attic. I climb up
a rickety ladder, tear away cobwebs.
Spiders scuttle into crevices.
I find a book shelf and chemistry set,
pages open on the floor,
crossed out and screwed up.
Red litmus paper: a warning.
Eight cloudy tests…
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