When You Live in an Old House, Expect Dust
I was to pass the morning
lost in frosty sunlight. You see,
I’m quite happy to spend my life,
here. Lost. Mornings with open
windows and doors, muffled
in dust flying through the air.
Flecked gossamer fairies they are,
falling lame on soft jewelled webs
with a trip and a soft puff,
toying with a flute’s trill song.
I watched those flecks,
that shining dust,
as if they wrote the day’s agenda.
We take these things for granted,
I think. Far too much dusting
is done in the name of cleanliness.
Written for Red Wolf Poems Wordle, and reposted.
Personal diary of 1991: Godstone, Surrey.
Memories of living in a house built in 1560.