Mornings and evenings and mornings and evenings
That strange sort of melancholy you only find when it rains
Stored away doings - some crumbled to rubbles
Some drenched in the smell of what-we-cooked-yesterday.
Sun is precious, and filtered and processed
And seeps in through sieves, stretched across the windows
And time is precious, and filtered and processed
But too much or too little - that nobody knows.
Replayed and re-run, and re-heard and re-spun
To speak is to repeat, and nothing is new
Between changing watches and the next batch of dishes
Twenty nine hours of nothing is due
Nothings have piled up like laundry in stacks
And laundry has piled up like yoga on mats
And mats are all rolled up in dusty old corners
Misplaced brooms and discount packs.