Silent Wash

It’s a direct drive of fifty litres

From me to you.

Six hundred miles north

Until I’m resting my eyes on your face:

That soothing easy care

From the dial and touch

Of your features


The mixed fabric of your voice

Trickling through my cells.


I am freestanding

But will bloom

When you enter the room.


Until then,

I’m in this intensive

Spanner of time

The silent wash of tyres beneath me

That spin only stories of stability

From the road.


My four rolling chaperones

Do not know of The Delicates:

Your hand cool at the back of my neck

My eyelashes against your cheekbone

How cotton smells on your skin.  


They have only known the kiss of asphalt


But the memory of that

Is enough to spur them on. 



◄ I have a crush on one of the inanimate pirates at Pirate Crazy Golf


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Bryony Partridge

Sun 27th Nov 2022 07:58

Thank you Stephen 🙏🏼 It was inspired by words in the online manual of my new washing machine…! I challenged myself to include as many of them as possible in a poem.

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Stephen Gospage

Wed 23rd Nov 2022 16:49

This is a fabulous poem, Bryony. It merits several reads but can be digested and understood first time.

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