In the old shed, the twigs of hawthorn rot

In the little shed, lost twigs of hawthorn rot
The hedgehogs and the slow worm are red hot
The sun has dried the planks , the wood is cracked
And by a thunderstorm it’s now been smacked

Hidden, hard to reach  earth’s  wildness lives
And from the  nearby compost  comes  more warmth
Ripe with beetles,ants and banned to man
In this small venue, life can carry on

Yet now I see large dogs who run about
They come into  this sacred place  like louts
The wasps may sting, the ants may irritate
The farmer cocks his gun across the  gate.

My little secret garden is destroyed
Then by angry neighbours I’m annoyed