Indoor Weather

Woke this morning
to find the weather
had moved in.

A minor snowstorm in the bathroom:
frozen pipes and icicles,
like a goblin’s nose,
dangle from the taps.
Snow heaps in the bath
and the mirror a web of frost.

Downstairs, the kitchen
has been blasted by a tornado,
chairs upended, table akimbo,
pots and pans chatter
with metallic tongues
as plates and cups hurtle.

In the sitting room, all seems well.
A blazing sun sprawls across the sofa;
armchairs snooze
and on the carpet the sun dozes.
Heat shimmers from the tv.

Upstairs, the bedrooms
have been battered by storms:
thunder booms from cupboards,
lightning snakes crackle from under beds,
curtains lash windowpanes,
and the carpet is soaked.

Downstairs all is silent.
Though, inside the fridge,
there is mayhem.
A thick fog has settled in.
My baby bels are hidden
In a pick blur of mist.

This house is at sea –
Storm-blown – sun-struck,
Snow-wrecked – mist-mugged.

Nothing has been the same
since the weather moved in.