The shed

All great writers have a shed
for them to go with a rickety bench
a worn out, hand me down chair
an ink stained desk all wear and tear
 
a lonely place with spiders webs
and hang your hat on wooden pegs
a place to entertain your muse
to join the crowd of inner recluse
 
all the super broadband speed
you can take or leave with ease
connect now with gifts of solitude
a window inward looking for not platitudes  
 
to sit with empty paper mind
to envisage words to conjure blind  
the shed we need just a sacred place
is poetry a ruin to knock into shape