Janus has a grand auld pair of heads:

One looks backwards on all the **** and grime, on the ****, on the limescale, on the mould, on the excrement, on the muck and grit and gunge and gunk, on all that wastage of human time, toiling away, scraping at the rot and the filth and slime, and besmearing the earth afresh, and blessing it.

The other looks forwards on all the **** and grime, on the ****, on the limescale, on the mould, on the excrement, on the muck and grit and gunge and gunk, on all that wastage of human time, toiling away, scraping at the rot and the filth and slime, and besmearing the earth afresh, and blessing it.

Make tea
Make it gently
Boil fresh cold water
in a kettle without limescale
Prepare leaves
Smell a pinch between fingers
Subtle and clean
Fine wire mesh
Allows steeping
Time on a watch
to prevent stewing
There is no other word to describe
this liquid colour
except golden
feeling

Gliding my finger over the cracked kitchen tile
Kettle, king of limescale
Waiting and forgetting
One foot in-front of the other
Travel like a skipping rock
The back of my neck burning
Singeing hairs of fever
Fluttering spine cremating
ashes spilling out of my ears.
It’s a citrus sun on a winter day
Frosted fence melting away in an animated motion,
Like butter over a pan
Bubbles on a thorn bush.