Broom In Hand Poem by Amy Hollins

I have been fond of grey since finding Whistler's
Mother, grey with a modest black and white ...
a chastity in Quaker terms. Winds
that freak the blossom over greening slabs
translate the line of paving to this house
into a grey of churchyards, into fading
spectacles after winter weddings.

No matter how you look at it, such
commemoration of a festive instant
has to go. Sweeping makes the cleaner
job of it, though low on speed. Not
to sweep encourages a heap of gibes
from paper-boy and passer-by, a fling
of views. It would seem impractical
not to be affected by externals.
Flings can be habit forming, frequent
as untimely shocks of blossom falling.
Left to lie they, too, will tend to stick.