Sour Wee Poem


Later, I will unpack some boxes

And think what to cook for tea,

Sweep up crumbs and orange pith,

Florets of wilted broccoli.


I’ll change some sheets and flip a mattress,

And to the laundrette head.

LSB has had the night sweats,

And he’s drenched the f**king bed.


I’ll pick hairs out of the plug hole

Then squirt bleach down the loo,

And scrub in vain a stubborn stain,

That is probably hardened poo.


I’ll let rip with antiseptic spray

And the table give a wipe

And eradicate those pesky germs,

That make us all feel s***e.


I’ll pop out to get essentials,

Though what was that I read?

Yes, glyphosate (or weed-killer)

Has been found in UK bread.


But before this toil I undertake,

The kettle I will fill,

And just stare out my window,

To take this moment to be still.


Aside from traffic all is tranquil,

With no squawking children near

To detract from this serenity,

Which I’m blessed to see from here.


Leaves circle and wheel as they skitter,

Up the street in the speeding cars’ wake,

Crunchy golden wisps of russet,

A beautiful autumn scene make.


The beech tree’s in constant motion,

Its leaves’ burnished undersides,

Catch the light like chinks of copper

Like gilded butterflies.


They quiver in silent symphony,

And my flagging spirits lift,

It’s hard to be sour when you raise your eyes,

And take in a view like this.


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