Taken on its own, the fickle doorbell
has no particular score to settle
(a reluctant clapper? an ill-at-ease dome?)
were it not part of a whole syndrome:
the stubborn gate; flaking paint; cotoneaster
camouflaging the house-number.
Which is not to say the occupant
doesn’t have (to hand) lubricant,
secateurs, paint-scraper, an up-to-date
shade-card known by heart.
It’s all part of the same deferral
that leaves hanging baskets vulnerable;
although, according to a botanist,
for most plants, short-term wilt
is really a protective mechanism.
But surely every biological system
has its limits? There’s no going back
for egg-white once it’s hit the fat.
Yet some people seem determined to stretch, to redefine
those limits. Why are they so inclined?