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.