Today has been chosen as a day to write an ode, so I have channelled John Keats and written a pretentious ode to my bath.
Ode to a Bath (with apologies to John Keats)
Thou still unravish’d bath of bubbles deep,
Thou watery womb with scent that cannot hide,
Filled with Lush fumes that beckon me to sleep
As ‘neath thy Lethe waters I do slide:
What mysteries lie within thy panelled shape,
Or underneath the foaming, steaming heat
Of this, my answer to the calmest sea?
In thee my body finds its true escape –
Was ever relaxation thus as sweet,
Or time more precious than hours spent in thee?
A book, a glass of wine and Radio Four –
Slight luxuries these, but in my bath they all
Conspire to lift my soul and make me more
Than thankful for each blessing – large or small.
An hour to spend in blissful solitude
Without the sight of others or their noise;
No need for manners, airs or even clothes,
For nakedness in thee is never rude.
An hour in thee is filled with deepest joys:
My fondness for thee ever daily grows.