Procrastination

Listening to the wind

rattling the drainpipe

rustling flakes of mica insulation in the loft.

The weight of things, of ‘things’, above me

stored and waiting, poised, to bury

should the joists give way, ceiling collapse.

Now rust-corroded pram, unusable,

and a cot which did all right for our three.

but doesn’t meet the safety standards of today.

Tea chest of my Dad’s framed abstract oil paintings

(a label on the side in Matthew’s writing:

“do not attempt to move this on your own!”)

a bedspread which we brought back from Majorca

its green and orange woven fusty dustiness

now a nightmare of potential smothering.

A table and two benches from Scapa

Along with sundry other household stuff

Such as crockery and saucepans, forks and sharp-end knives

We’ve said for years we’ll clear it out

Get rid of stuff no longer necessary, useful

But only when the wind blows do I remember that it’s urgent.

[This was Saturday's submission for Jo Prescott's National Poetry week challenge]