A Mother’s Day Poem
How far back do washing-up bowls go?
Holes in rocks with abrasive moss scours or
wooden bowls, clay china and plastic.
How many hours have women stood sink-still,
stared down at their wet hands and
rinsed gallons of wishes down the drain.
Listen girls don’t grow tall enough to see your
brain stuck to the non-stick surface of pans,
or find yourself deserted by reluctant dryers.
This task, as old as laying fires, is slyly upgraded
by ethereal-liquids and rubber gloves,
is still the drudgery of scrubbers.
No CBE’s and certainly no Bachelor of Art degrees,
but my chore-score of utensils reaches twice
around the earth, and numerous plates I
spun into the couldn’t care less air, are well on their
way to the milky way, so pleased to be out of the
reach of bleach and the stink of dank dish cloths.
Men and lads free your mothers from the
bowl, before they are all washed up.
After all, do Angels believe in fairy-liquid or
polish their halloes with brillo-pads?
I suppose they eat their manna off clouds
and expect the rain to do their washing up.
Please leave your comments below, I read them all. Thanks for stopping by and reading my poems.
Photo of Alpha Jessie Hughes – my late mother’s passport photo, taken of her during WWll