Wrung out. 12

Bill’s gait, a left-over from trench foot
spoke of a silent stoic
that tried to walk tall, looking pained
as a pencil sharpened by a knife.
He cushioned his bones from sores
and sat to crank the mangle,
lamenting a loss of strength
that would never return.
Hilda, like her wooden dolly pegs,
on sturdy legs held up and hung out
as sheets cast shadows
bespattered by splashes of sun,
transient stains on the lime-washed back yard wall.
Heavy weathered days
that gave way to a yawn of sky,
copper-coloured as their whisky nightcaps

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    12 Comments on "Wrung out."

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    Sofia Kioroglou

    Love this one, Vicky!

    Dave Kavanagh
    Bravo, Vicky. This poem hit me right in the gut. I grew up with the remnants of a mangle in an overgrown back garden (yes I am that old 🙂 ) I love this scene of an aged couple doing laundry and yearning for their youth. I am choosing this… Read more »
    Richard A. Trobridge

    Very nice good poem.

    Mario Vitale

    Wow what a piece one for the record books

    Naomi Tate Maghen

    ‘Paine as a pencil sharpened by a knife’ – that’s a great image/simile. This is a very poignant and moving write, told with creativity

    Mario Vitale

    just a fantastic piece really good