Privy

In the garden’s shaded corner,
A modest privy waits, its timber worn,
Oak planks scarred by rain and thunder,
A humble throne where thoughts are born.

The door swings soft on iron hinges,
Revealing snug interior space,
Where straw‑lined seat and earthen hinges
Offer quiet, private grace.

Beyond the scent of rosemary and thyme,
Beyond the hum of distant bees,
It holds the day’s unspoken rhyme,
A sanctuary for mind’s ease.

Here one may ponder, sigh, or grin,
Release the weight of worldly cares,
While sparrows stitch the sky within
Their gentle, ever‑watchful airs.

So raise a cup to this old loo,
To simple corners, stark and true—
The privy, keeper of our inner hue,
Where solitude and nature accrue.