Done and Dusted

I can draw pictures in the dust on my shelves, sometimes I do – I write in vain the phrase, please dust me, to no avail. I dislike dusting, it’s a yukky job, the dusting cloth makes me sneeze and my eyes water. The dust from the fire and the dust from the earth. Sometimes the wind here is so strong, and the dust so thick of a November afternoon you can’t see the trees outside. That’s when the house fills with dust.