Gareth Culshaw is an aspiring writer who hopes to achieve something with the pen. His poems have appeared in Nature Writing, Sentinel, The Galway Review, Bindweed Magazine, and Treehouse. He lives in Wales, UK.
I flipped the lid the toffee scent of oil
based paint swam up my nose.
How it seems all familiar repeating teenage days.
Stirring it with a stick, clearing dust off the step.
Creosote on the fence panels, masonry paint on back
yard bricks. Hammerite on the garden gate.
That garden wall with the bulge you said was there
because of him next door. Forbes. Pushing his side back
as weed roots spread through mortar joints, frost breaking
the English bond. We always had plans to fix it. Never did.
Hands in pockets watching, I brushed slowly.
Occasional jutting of your false teeth.
Straight backed as always, the aching muscles from
digging drains. Wellies deep in mud and rain.
Today I’m alone, colouring stone.