Wrung out

Wrung out

A Poem by victoria

Bill's gait, a left-over from trench foot
spoke of a silent stoic that tried to walk tall, looking pained
as a pencil sharpened by a knife.
He cushioned his bones from sores
and sat to crank the mangle,
lamenting a loss of strength
that would never return.
Hilda, like her wooden dolly pegs,
on sturdy legs held up and hung out
as sheets cast shadows
bespattered by splashes of sun,
transient stains on the lime-washed back yard wall.
Heavy weathered days
that gave way to a yawn of sky,
copper-coloured as their whisky nightcaps.

© 2017 victoria

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Stunning portrayal.
The type of insight that is painful to possess.
Amazing share!

Posted 3 Years Ago


3 Years Ago

Thank you Frank

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2 Reviews
Added on June 11, 2017
Last Updated on June 11, 2017



United Kingdom

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