Down dark cobbled back streets, clothes lines stretched 
across cohorts of back yards, on Washing Day.
Regiments of white bed sheets hoisted high
flapping like flags,  in threatening skies 
supported by proud, 
immoveable clothes props. 
Garments not daring to fly loose, 
Straddled by dolly pegs 
forced down hard.

Above boiling bleach buckets  
Malevolent steam swirled, silently seething,
polluting the air with pungent peroxide.
The back door was wedged open, windows wide, 
but still its clammy fingers clung to high corners.

Seized shirts submerged in the twin tub
were dragged out of the simmering broth
by oversized wooden tongs, grinning
toothless crocodiles.

A solitary circular spinner flipped its lid 
with brutal force, revealing a gaping hole 
that gobbled up garments 
before firing it’s jet engine
at the press of an oversized button.
A bright warning label spelled danger but,
I was more afraid of grandma. 
So I did as I was bid
and stayed two full steps back,
watching a steady stream of captives 
being fed into the rollers of the mangle,
pulled out prostrate, straight jacketed, 
lobotomised on the other side.  

Winched up on a maiden, by rope and pulley 
squealing like a stuck pig, screaming in protest;
corsets and bloomers were discreetly dried.
Ponderous drops dripped 
onto the oilcloth floor beneath 
missing expectant open mouthed buckets.

Hugging the gas fire, a burdened clothes horse 
promised more than it could deliver.
A metal mesh fireguard, kept long after toddler years, 
lent its flat roof to dry despondent socks.

From picture rail gallows, lifeless forms hung
closing in on the living, 
One by one they were gathered,
folded and locked away in the airing cupboard
guarded by a gurgling old boiler in his
pillar-box red padded jacket.

Paroled for ironing; creases were pressed out
and forcibly pressed in,
under a hellish red hot iron
wet handkerchiefs hissed and spat. 
The board creaked and groaned,
along with grandma as she held her back

finally, the ordeal was over;
clothes were locked into looming 
tall boys with the turn of a tiny brass key.

The line stretches through time
from dolly tub to auto scrub
My laundry is gently taken from a silent washer, 
that soaks and spins on demand,
conditioned smooth and wrinkle free 
without need of an army of machines.
Then, lightly clipped by brightly coloured pegs
Still, I discreetly throw my underwear 
into the dryer and smile 
“What would the neighbours say?”

Mine is an easy load.  My line marks the ages 
of my babies as their clothes grow.
Our tired old favourite t-shirts 
Out of shape, faded, with holes,
hang comfortably together 
blowing in the wind.
Billowing white sheets release 
their bouquet of jasmine and lily,
the sun warms my face,
and the breeze caresses my skin 
like the palm of a hand against my cheek, 
or a kiss on the forehead from grandma.

May 2018