A Mother's Day Poem by Rona Campbell

Photo of Alpha Jessie Hughes - my late mother's passport photo,  taken of her during WWII

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 subtly enhanced by ethereal liquids and rubber gloves, but it remains the drudgery of scrubbers. 

No CBEs and indeed no Bachelor of Arts 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 halos with Brillo pads?

I suppose they eat their manna from clouds and expect the rain to do their washing up. 

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