The outhouse, such a magic place
to hide away in and pretend,
we’d set up house in that small space
when summers seemed to have no end.
Evicting spiders with a broom,
brushing cobwebs from the walls,
contents piled high to make more room
we’d crouch evading adult calls.
Our favorites sometimes joined us there
– wizards, or kings and underlings.
We the princesses tall and fair,
our robes old curtains tied with strings.
Fair heroines from tales of old
invited us to join them dine,
serving fine worms and garden snails,
sump water making finest wine.
Candles in jam jars giving light
where daylight could not penetrate.
We kept weird potions out of sight,
the recipes on a piece of slate.
Fairies one day, witches next,
by giants, trolls and elves beguiled,
we guarded secrets, muscles flexed
– imaginations running wild.
Summers of fun behind that door,
we’d set up house in that small space.
As children who could ask for more?
The outhouse, such a magic place.
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(Outhouse: a small building attached to a house or very close to the house, used, for example, for storing things in)
