The Sluicing Machine


Specially dedicated to everyone who has washed their clothes by hand, not by choice. Especially if you have had a sick baby. I would love a dry toilet, I barely clean my house, my carbon footprint is petite, but life without a washing machine? That would take some convincing. 

351
Somewhere a woman is dreaming
Of the dance, where she feels
Most awake, most herself, most alive
But when the dream is done, don’t ask

352
Clothes curl foetal in the shushing
Sluicing machine, my most loved appliance
Daily, to my rescue; I have laboured
Over bathfuls of fabric, enough, enough

353
Somewhere another family wakes, perplexed
By unfamiliar walls and ceilings and curtains drawn
Having slept soundly in their new home; happiness
Settles swiftly, after the months of waiting

354
Without a machine for laundering garments
Stamping on the grubby stuff in soap-scum
Is the congenial stage. The sodden wretched
Back aching task is rinsing out, wringing out 

355
As a child I studied my mother’s hands, so
Creditable against my blank covered digits, they
Could tell volumes, while my infantile extremities
Knew not burn of stove nor cut of knife

356
Today my hand skin is coarse as dragon scales
Mythopoeia of life burnished in, expressed in skill
Of task; see how I can drape washing, deft, the
Fabric flicked, laid flat and faultless on the airer

357
There is scope indoors to drape this undirtied
Selection; the outside line is peg to peg already
And if the rain comes it provides an extra rinse
Things work out, like spring follows winter

358
Chicken in the fridge, pork joint
Airs on the windowsill, life currently is
Feeding me well. Not enough parsnips, but
I will soon walk into town, to top up

359
Washing, two loads, spun and hung to dry
The laundry basket half emptied, it is
Always mid task, that is the nature
Of the rotational task

360
Somewhere wakefulness chokes on grief
Every morning will break cold, through the lingering
Adjustive time, while normality does not return
Because its irrevocable change will not be recognised







Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Contact Pants Conundrum

Image
There is weather today, I do note it: take a few moments to reckon the size of a cloud (big) and the frequency of rain (sporadic.) Centre of my interest though is a stack of magazines. Not the fashion kind. This is martial arts research. I'm not even sure what it is I'm looking for, but intuition calls loud. A range of old adverts skew some amusement. Contact pants, for example. Pants are not trousers where I come from. They are underwear. Professional contact pants: improved smirk value. But why would a person be likely to purchase a grappling hook and a lock pick set? For specialists and hobbyists only, the blurb assures. Guidance on the pheromone spray that attracts women against their better judgement? I doubt it works any more proficiently than the mysterious potion that defines your muscles while you sleep. But, then: I wonder is some sprayed on this paper? What was my intuition thinking, making this ghastly shout… Tea break time. There's a lot of words...
Read more

Spring Is Ticking

Image
It has been a while since I wrote a blog post - I have been writing books, and keeping a diary, the days and the work aren’t lost, just ticking quietly in a corner. [There’s a little dust in that corner but the shelf is made of strong oak planks, and the light is enchanting. A plant grows in a pot, it spouts leaves. A half candle stands in a china holder.] At Paddock Garden (properly titled Paddock Garden Orchards, I am a lazy typer) a tree corral has been constructed. It contains persimmons which may not have survived the recent cold blasts and heavy rain, along with some happy pepper trees, bladdernuts, and plum yews. We plan to underplant and interplant extensively in this concentrated area. Around the grounds also we have begun some windbreak hedges, mostly of elaeagnus and hazel. We have a line of sapling native oaks edging the spinney. The first of our camping bay areas is growing emerald grass that was seeded last autumn; the second has recently been seeded; the last three need ...
Read more

September's End

Image
September is all but done. Our fingers are purple from plucking berries, scored by thorns, sore and satisfied. How lucky we are, and how grateful! Through the cold spring, and the soggy summer, we have worked to make this place more and more beautiful. We are charming sustenance from the soil with our toiling; using the present to craft a kinder path- a tree-lined, fruit-bearing way.  And so here we are, in autumn, a time of harvest, glut, and storage. A time to plant trees, a time of festival. Our lives are seasonal, tidal, temperate, held in repetitions that are never the same; variations of repeating patterns, a common uniqueness. How lucky we are, and how grateful! Pollinator friendly saplings added to  the firepit hedge, lower field.
Read more