Wednesday, September 26, 2007

The washerwoman

Just a picture-poem I wrote some years ago in my struggles, or is it??

The slap of water on the stones;
the blows of life against my bones.

And the long toil, each day’s drear drudgery
Labour of weariness, with no respite,
Through the winters of foul mud and the summers of too little,
when I long for the cool comfort
the caress of sweet, sweet water
To my dry throat and my barren life, and my hands forever empty.

When the rains come, they come in vain
My beds are dry with too much pain..

And nothing is ever clean, not clean enough.
The stains go down to the cloth and through my fingers
Into my heart, and no washing can ever release me.
I am a thing of filth, until my soul
Finds refuge in the water, and a bird lights on my finger,
And the old pollution sweeps away downstream.

And I shall clean a covering for my children,
And the dirt shall not pass on to another generation.

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