Dust

A Poem

My fingerprints are grey, the whorls and loops outlined, Later on I realise There is a streak across my cheek: Warpaint for the first battle Against a third of a century of dust,

The attic has windows: this is a modern house Full to the brim and beyond With this and that and bric-a-brac, Light as grey as my fingers Bounces across the odd angles of jumble,

Books, teapots, dolls, clothing, chairs, a telex machine: Remnants of forgotten days, They sometimes leap and sometimes creep, Bringing back into the now A tangible past that was better off lost,

Escape barred when history rubs off on your hands, Neither dusting cloths nor brooms Can sweep away our yesterday; A shaft of weak autumn light Spotlights the motes dancing to my disturbance.