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Colour hangs,

becalmed towelling,

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,

masked 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

in abandon from their task.


A slight breeze!

The saviour of a summer wash

sidles in,

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

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