(based on suggestions from @realnixwilliams, @_boobook_ and @skippy_2)
Filigree of frost and mould on windows
prickles out a ream of stars
spiral galaxies press against
glass for private screening.
Pretend they’re far away, stream
orbital arms from years ago
long-forgotten halos of dust.
Couple of hours til reminders beep
breakfast orders grind jam into carpet
greasy tiles demand elbows and sugar soap.
Grey light will rise responsibly,
like a shiny straightened paperclip
pierce a hole in the morning
restore tired factory settings.
But not yet. Heater glows orange
wordless purring companion.
On a clear day, who needs forever?
Grimy stars three feet away
are as far as I need to see.
Better housekeepers never know these
impossible squalid diamonds.
Today’s poem is based on suggestions from three peeps:
- @realnixwilliams: “Glimpses of the milky way on a clear night”
- @_boobook_: “jam”
- @skippy_2: “one shiny straightened paperclip”
I really should clean the windows one day, but it’s a job that never quite gets done, due to more immediate requirements (clean clothes, meals, empty nappy bins, day job etc). On these increasingly chilly mornings, condensation clusters around the mould on the window panes. Once dawn breaks, it looks wet and filthy. Before dawn, it reflects the outside lights and looks like a belt of stars stretching across the glass. If I was more hygienic, I’d never get to see that.