The house is cluttered. All around you see
The stuff we have amassed, unthinkingly:
The piles of books to painful now to read;
The chests of clothes that we no longer need;
Old records, grey and dusty, far too old
To listen to, their sleeves gone green with mould;
The knickknacks that will make us wonder why
We ever bought them; plants that have gone dry;
The photographs that make me shake my head
And look away or tear them up instead;
The couch, now old and dented, that won't fit
The two of us on which you used to sit -
Spring-cleaning's indicated. Just a ring
To town and it's not long before they bring
A sturdy skip to dump the ruddy lot.
The ground floor done, we'll climb the stairs and trot
Into our bedroom that is just as bad
With all misunderstandings that we had.
The carpet's gritty and the shabby door
Leaves tracks in our teeth's grindings on the floor
And there's a motley group of useless spoils
Left round the walls by long years' fierce turmoils,
A dreary mess that smells of loss and doubt...
Let's take a broom and sweep the ashes out,
Perfumes that have lost any pleasing powers,
The stacks of half-spent days and ill-used hours,
The store of future days without a shine
And all that unread poetry of mine,
The joys we never knew, our bed and all,
And shove them down the stairs into the hall
Where we will call the dustman, so that he
Can take away all this, including me.
And should you like to salvage something, do –
Take anything that seems of use to you,
Our tattered hopes, bright mornings or the few
Short golden hours when all our skies were blue.