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violet, sky blue, orange
- and indistinct, a fabric
the campaigner of
countless roils amid
water and suds pounded
by the unforgiving agitator.
Set apart, this loner drifts silently,
by the heady shades that
divert its visibility,
like a child expelled by its peers,
disposed to solitary obscurity.
Shadows cling, rectangular
beneath the curved dip of line,
ageing wires tied with
tape and string,
threaded into branches of hoist
that's seen other days.
Long gone the z-shaped handle
that turned like time,
lifting a load of children's clothes
to greet the sky and breezes of yesterday.
Green paint flakes from the trunk,
shreds onto the concrete plate beneath,
where pegs have flung themselves
from their task.
A slight breeze!
The saviour of a summer wash
ruffles the nap to a soft pile.
The hoist amiably turns,
then waits again for the teasing draught.
The quartet moves,
for a moment, cyclic,
united as one.
Not today the rasping stiffness,
rent of sun and aimless stillness.
Rose Frankcombe © 28/01/08
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Towels, an inspiration for a poem. Image: Rose Frankcombe