Dear Universe, can I just say
That everything now smells of hay,
I’ve cut the lawn down, best I can,
(And wished I could employ a man…)
Cause, what with all the sun and rain,
The green stuff had gone mad again.
‘Cause rain you gave us, all the way,
And practically every day
In bucketloads, or fine as mist
That only rarely would desist
Tiil I get home… admit defeat…
And then you turn on all the heat!
I only took a week away
A week that was both work and play,
A short break is not much to ask
But in return, I face a task…
For every single thing I own
Is dusty, hairy, or has grown.
I’ve hoovered up the clippings and
Swept up the ant-hill burrowed sand,
I’ve tackled cobwebs, dusted through,
I’ve scrubbed until home shines anew…
I’ve cleaned the fish and bathed the hound
And all the buried dog-treats found.
As if that’s not enough, I’ve been
Each day to work to cook and clean,
I’ve written, researched and designed…
(All with bronchitis, bear in mind…)
So, Universe, a small request…
Please can I have a bloody rest?