Oh hell, my house is full of squatters !
They sprawl complacently in every room,
self-righteous residents like sitting tenants,
sure of their occupation lawfully based
on length of tenure, lack of illegality,
passive spectators of my incompetence
in letting such a dire situation happen.
They hang about in wardrobes, sit on shelves,
play hide and seek in drawers and cupboards,
slip down the sides of sofas, holes in pockets,
crawl under documents and cloak themselves in dust -
all the accumulated objects I don't use
or even know exactly that exist.

The growing season

The summer sun discards their vests
to slim their thighs and sprout their breasts.

Immature it hangs its head
disconsolate and drooping down;
in time it swells and stiffens instead
turning pale erectile brown
like something wild brought to bed.
Then the bud bursts through the sheath
revealing unexpected red
as dazzling now in garden as heath -
a scarlet poppy, petals spread.