Moldy

On the windowsill, a patch of green‑black mouldy bloom,
A fusty whisper where the rain has seeped and loomed.
It creeps like quiet lace across the old wooden pane,
Turning fresh bread to a soft, suspicious stain.

Breathing in the spores, the air feels thick and dank,
A reminder that even bright rooms can thank
The patient, silent work of nature’s quiet hand—
Mouldy, yet oddly beautiful in its stubborn stand.