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Washing

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Home again each month like a stranger,

he has three days’ turnaround

between trips for you to wash

his gear – which leaves you

barely two when, on his final day,

you’d rinse off his luck.

 

So let him mooch with mates,

while you heat the copper and soak

his long johns, socks and ganseys

in that soup of frothing water,

teasing fibres matted

with blood, scales, spatter.

 

And when you’ve sluiced

and sluiced the greasy suds away,

lift the dripping weight of wool

that you will wring to dankness

and then force down

a mangle’s tight-lipped throat.

 

If weather’s bad, God help us!

as once again you pray for days

of providential breezes –

for though he never says,

you know he’ll love that freshness:

its pliant warmth, its laundered smell.

 

◄ At Varykino

A Waldorf Salad ►

Comments

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raypool

Wed 21st Mar 2018 20:31

You can almost feel the weight of activity and slog in this poem David; it takes us back to cobbled backyards and rudimentary needs, with no refinements. Wives treated as horses. I love the idea of the mangle's tight - lipped throat, and the whole sag and soak of it.

Great writing. Ray

<Deleted User> (18980)

Wed 21st Mar 2018 18:55

Actually, reading it again probably not a student. Who is it David?

<Deleted User> (18980)

Wed 21st Mar 2018 18:54

I like it David. I guess it's based on a student home from Uni. The scene you describe could be straight out of Orwell's Wigan Pier. Aye lad..it's grim oop north!

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