Stars in The Sock Drawer
A galaxy is growing in my bin,
Whilst comets crash into the Chinese rug,
A blackhole bobs beside the biscuit tin,
And minute moons rotate around a mug.
The white dwarf in the fridge could curdle cream,
Spacetime inside the dryer steals some socks,
A wormhole warps the washing; starts to steam,
As pulsars tick off time like cuckoo clocks.
A silky milkyway sleeps in my sink,
And teacup constellations mesmerise,
My biro bursts with interstellar ink,
Whilst small suns burn the bedding as they rise.
As asteroids smash seaside souvenirs:
Grand music plays in quaint domestic spheres.