ladies
in their pinnies
they swept the pavements
of whispers into the gullies
they black-leaded their grates
and polished the brass candle holders
pegged their worldly cleanliness
propped up and flagged on the lines
garnered across hard yards
where nothing grew
their stone houses grimed
by the time of factory chimneys
and coal-fired poking over the ashes
where teapots stewed their tears
their gritted howls in the windy updraft
of prayers so smokey that god coughed
and spit and polish shone their dreams
as they tightened their pinnies
and bent to it
No comments:
Post a Comment