The smell of domesticated work.
I deny my own pride in the soft clean floor,
pretending the dirt destruction is not uplifting.

A panic, a hunting, the insect squirrel
shelters in the something's wrong with this tree
from the model-T predator searching below.

The uneven clump standing above the moor.
I wish I had an indoor mower;
was I ripped off at the furniture shop?

A forgotton moment
from last year's production line
one of fifty thousand on July 23rd.

How I hate the sound of brushing
causing more clenched teeth than Meg Richardson,
my ribs scarred by a thousand steel scripts.

Marmalade's second home.
"A week off from the jarring rat race,
a chance to relax, to spread myself out,
'a happy holiday in the sun'*".

The clump ignores our little world
as the stalking cat ignores the passing car.
It maps the course of wild neutrinos,
a whiff of smoke escaping from a window.

*Sex Pistols, Holiday In The Sun.