I’m Letting the outside in

The double-glazing is stained with winter splatter.

Porridge is cooling in a retro bowl and my bare feet –

baking from the heat of a sun kissed puppy

who is baking on a sun striped carpet.

 

There’s a reek of yesterday’s shenanigans at the Bannock burn

wafting from her tartan collar

and the air feels.

Music ripples through my rib cage.

 

Washing hangs – half arsed on cold radiators

while a new load spins in the machine.

The sagging rope in the back garden

Is empty. Waiting for the weight of winter warmers

 

Honestly soaked.

Waiting to be nipped with plastic tipped pegs

and a satisfying sigh.

I’m letting the outside in.

 

Three squirrels scurry along the naked trees across the way.

And me

I’m resisting the need to weed the garden

I’m letting the outside in.

© Kirsty Lear-Grant

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