One of those pretty awful poems

On Summer mornings the house can breathe

And though when we open windows wide

The flies arrive and drive their buzzing bodies

Hither thither helter skelter, the house still takes in

Gulps of air, as though in prescience aware of

Long-closed windows come Winter. 

                        The breathing river flows from front to

Back, and cleans the slate of all the un-Spring-cleaned

Detritus.  At least in my mind’s eye that’s how it goes.

A little breeze can sometimes blow and slam the doors,

Rattle windows, fling the curtains, push a toothbrush off the

Sill, drop it into baths (or toilet bowls).

For some reason this poem (written a few years ago) was listed in my files as 'One of those pretty awful poems.'   I'm not sure I entirely agree with myself.