Skull

Do you see a skull,
maybe of an animal
or Neanderthal man?
It's jaw-down in the window.
I twist my head till my eye
locks on its socket,
rotates it, head up.

The skull is white mist,
framed between layers
of a double-glazed pane.
I can count its teeth,
guess the size of its brain,
fill in its eye, add hair,
till the creature's skeleton's
all but there.

Do you see my skull?

poem © Celia Warren 2013

In almost all the years we've lived in this house, we've been carers. Now, at last, we have time, and dwindling energy, to address ourselves to the fact that our house is falling apart around us. Last night, it was a leaking roof. Today, though it's grey, it's not rained, so we have a brief reprieve. (There's a washbasin in the bedroom with the leaking ceiling, so we were able to rig up a polythene shute to direct water down the drain - Mr PP's brainwave.)

Now, again, we can sit and look at how all the windows need replacing (or fixing somehow?). The list of jobs is as long as both our arms, and we need a lot of expert advice before we can begin. And some dry weather. (Ha! We waited all last year in vain for that!)

So, for now, we're fixing up the bungalow, where my late parents lived, so we can move in there while we fix this house. Not quite yet. Then, it'll all cost two arms and two legs. Today is all about body parts! And my brain hurts.

PS
Is the skull a sign from the grim reaper?
Did I mention out loud that I'm not a good sleeper?

(Image just as is, but rotated through 90 degrees.)