The sharp, irregular knock of wooden
brush’s shoulder against skirting-board,
punctuated with the lighter tap
of brush on pan, the contents neatly
tapped back into its metal or plastic maw;
the knocks, sometimes gentle
with the happiness of home and heart;
sometimes, sharper, as if they carry
unspoken messages of time too short,
and tempers too..
not today the hoovering intake of that continuous
indrawn mechanical breath that so disturbs
domestic pets; that brings unease to the couch potato,
a guilt just short of offer to assist…
these unexpected  memories stirred
of simpler times and childhood’s unappreciated
securities, then taken so for granted..
how sweet, nostalgia’s evocations of the so selective heart…
fact is, there comes a time when wisdom’s word
is that it's now the time of life when one would be advised
to risk no longer, the pythonic entanglements,
the tempted fate, Miltonic fall,
domestic heaven turned disjointed hell,
of vacuuming the stairs…
*   [and a Betjemanesque coda for Dan Tyler: ]
Time now to cease unequal fight;
Nor trip on cord - Satanic the machine;
Hoover no longer to dust-free Jerusalem
In England's suburbs, leafy, green...