I could lie here for hours.
I could lie here for hours,
Lie in tranquillity,
Keep all your showers and saunas from me.
There’s only one way for seeping out grime,
I just need a tub and a loofah – and time.
Secluded, alone, with my own private lake,
I soak in the warmth as I soak out the ache,
I massage my fingers through lathering cream,
And I breathe in the salts with the tickle·ing steam.
And eyes closed, transposed, I lie,
And nothing will matter until I’m dry.
I let wash away all the pressure and bile.
So go on without me, at least for a while.
I always imagine a bath is the perfect place to find inspiration, but I think the brevity of this poem shows how little I do. I’m more likely to find forty winks – and nothing wrong with that.