The view from Here

Mould is growing on my window.

Mother blames it on the

con-den-sation; water

dripping

into blurry bubbles;

Van Gough on glass, i suppose

this is god’s view over eden.

doors open and close

below.

the smell of Home and cold snake

around my open mouth;

an open window.

While the months fly by

the golden buddha rots

and the air is tainted with some “thing”

called Love.

(Mum says it’ll get rid of the mould)

Biodegrade.

It’s natural, i suppose.

a bedsheet across

the washing line- a bright

green wavering plastic-

a soft white of silken lips.

cars far off would never know

that the brightest green caught

in my eyes were Yours.