Woodgrained
 
There’s a man on the bathroom floor
with a disconcerting  stare,  though
sometimes his gaze is
averted, or
so I imagine.
 
He changes when damp pervades,
his nose grows larger,
his eyes adopt a look of longing. They’re a deep shade of brown
though tomorrow
they could be grey.
 
In bright sunlight he disappears,
but I know he lingers; his moustache is left behind
like a small slug.
An indelible mark left by some
long gone oak.

Andrea Bowd

If you have any thoughts about this poem,  Andrea Bowd would be pleased to hear them