On Summer mornings the house can breathe
And though when we open windows wide
The flies arrive and drive their buzzing bodies
Hither thither helter skelter, the house still takes in
Gulps of air, as though in prescience aware of
Long-closed windows come Winter.
The breathing river flows from front to
Back, and cleans the slate of all the un-Spring-cleaned
Detritus. At least in my mind’s eye that’s how it goes.
A little breeze can sometimes blow and slam the doors,
Rattle windows, fling the curtains, push a toothbrush off the
Sill, drop it into baths (or toilet bowls).
For some reason this poem (written a few years ago) was listed in my files as 'One of those pretty awful poems.' I'm not sure I entirely agree with myself.