Walled in my cavern of time,

Static electricity bites at my fingertips,

At the window,

Closed tight from the wayward yelps,

Of football hooligans,

Voices piercing the bitter frost,

Of an otherwise peaceful Sunday morning,


Damp laundry clings to the thirsty air,

Charged by a humming half-broken radiator,

And a thin, stained wool carpet,

Tulips struggle at the narrow window edge,

One foot away, yellow petals fading to white,

And pink buds dropping like snowflakes,


Here, in my botanical paradise,

Subdued by English tea,

And the melodious tinkering,

Of a 19th century pleasure,

I am safe, from the tyranny of the streets below,

And the chaos of the surrounding world,

Enveloped in a tranquil nest,

I sit, I sip, and I listen.