domesticity

Eight months after moving house, I have finally bought an ironing board. Wilko, in their wisdom, describe it – along with so many of their cheaper products – as “functional”. I suppose that has to be better than dysfunctional.

Today is bright and breezy, a good drying day, if only I had a garden to hang the washing in. I don’t, though, so perhaps I won’t bother with such domestic pursuits, and the ironing board can continue in its packaging while I go out and enjoy the sunshine.

Perhaps it will be obvious why this train of thought has brought me to this old poem:

Eclipsed

She slips between the bedroom curtains,
steals across the floor and peeks
into the bathroom.

                       Steam
hangs in the air above
a crumpled towel.
Methodically, she checks
the other rooms in turn.

                       She runs
her fingertips along the shelves,
frowns at the dust, reflects
he’s not exactly what you’d call
domestic.

                       By mid afternoon,
she’s in the kitchen where she finds
a pile of coffee cups and plates
stagnating on the draining board.
She watches as milk curdles
and bread turns to dust.

                       She leaves
before the boy gets home, so
can only guess about the evenings
when a star-specked sky provides
the backdrop for his romance
with the moon.