Windowsill

Water is running down the windowsill

In great, rolling balls of bitterness that

Have been wiped away by a towel, or a bit of toilet roll

Every day, continuously.

They fail in their mission; I exterminate them all.

For the past two months I have been cold.

There is a dignity in it, if one looks close enough:

It is colder up here than down south – we must be tougher.

I bathe in the pride of it all.

But when the night calls, and my fingers freeze and

I shiver myself to sleep,

I begin to think about Spain or Brazil or the Bahamas

And I remember that

We are not to use hot water from the sink.

The smart meter will continue to rise

To double what it was those good years before:

Heating is only used a few times a week.

I am glad Granny is not here to feel it – she would’ve

Braved the ice and fallen on her feet

Again and again

Had it not been for the virus that got her and the other six million skeletons

Haunting me.

The people on the TV hand out energy bills

And tomorrow it is Christmas.

Our tree stays in the loft, dusty and old, untouched

For three years because nobody cares anymore.

Mould is growing on my windowsill, I turn around

And go to sleep. If it gets me, it gets me.

I am remembering a footballer offering free meals

To hungry children in need.

My eyes flutter shut

After the government have enjoyed their party.

The lashes are icicles now,

sharp and deathly.