The Washing
Armed with the washing, its damp haul spilling
from my chest, I’d watch my feet
didn’t catch and walk the grass barefoot
to dress the naked line.
There I’d let the load down and pull the sheets
apart in lemon light, flinging their limp halves
until they slung, pegging down whatever
almost slipped.
The breeze blew kisses, lifted my mother’s dress
against the sky, dancing as if alive,
and my father’s shirt-sleeves seemed to wave
as if to catch my attention.
Those were the days buy furosemide online when time lifted my face
into the washing, reducing me to a child,
the sun an empty sovereign in the kingdom
of what would happen.
Kevin Graham has had poems in Poetry Ireland Review, The Shop, Magma, Orbis, Stand and others. In 2010 he received a literature bursary from the Arts Council. He was selected for the Poetry Ireland Introductions Series 2012.