My cleaning cloth is dry

My cleaning cloth is dry

I’m a bit ashamed to say it,

but my cleaning cloth is dry.

Sits forlornly in the bathroom,

i sneak so quietly by.

It’s sister sits under the sink,

in a dark and confined prison,

I’m sure that I could get her wet,

the chance just hasn’t arisen!

Apologies to cleaning cloths,

but I’m outside in the sun,

tidying the garden,

or on a motorbike run.

Or maybe today is swimming,

lounging by Loch shores,

I feel a little guilty…..maybe,

I should be doing chores?

But bright blue skies are calling,

shouting, come out here, dance,

trees send leaves as messengers,

enjoy while you have the chance.

Those cleaning cloths are sitting,

in the corners of my mind,

I know that they are there,

feeling oh so very confined.

Then little people shout me,

come outside and play,

your house it isn’t dirty,

do that another day.

Abandoned all the dusting,

deserted cleaning baths,

sit astride the Harley,

just having lots of laughs.

When dead will they remember,

the house a bit unclean?

or will they look at photographs,

of all the things I’ve seen.

Might laugh and cry together,

tell tales about my life,

the daughter, sister, mother,

the doting, loving wife.

So yes I’ll do some cleaning,

but not until I’m done,

dancing round the stars,

cavorting and having fun.

So if you come and visit,

don’t expect pristine,

know I’ll make you comfortable,

I’ll be chuffed that you I’ve seen.

I’ve stood on snow capped mountains,

swum in milky lakes,

flown to many places,

lived through my mistakes.

Brought comfort to the dying,

stayed to hold their hand,

watched as they flew off,

to far and distant land.

So when I am departed,

maybe have a gentle cry,

but celebrate the fact, that

my cleaning cloths were dry.