Wrung out.

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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Victoria Donnelly

Born in England 1965. Previously my life was complex, I helped make it that way; now, I keep it simple and fun.

12 Responses

  1. Sofia Kioroglou says:

    Love this one, Vicky!

  2. Dave Kavanagh says:

    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 ūüôā ) I love this scene of an aged couple doing laundry and yearning for their youth. I am choosing this poem for ‘Editors Daily Picks’ because it is just that good. Thank you for sharing it here.

  3. Rpoett says:

    Very nice good poem.

  4. Mario Vitale says:

    Wow what a piece one for the record books

  5. Naomi Tate Maghen says:

    ‘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

  6. Mario Vitale says:

    just a fantastic piece really good

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