Fancy,
clearing out the pockets before your shirts go in the wash.
So easily,
patches of sodden unreadable penned paper,
could have emerged scattered,
lost in the cast-out wash-day debris.
Then where would my soul have been today?
Think you have been well trained; man;
well versed in washing etiquette.
Do I sense the hand of a woman,
or maybe legions of them,
behind this learnt
practical
dull but necessary,
repeated, un-extraordinary, un-showy,
preliminary (required) skill.
De-cluttering the pockets,
clearing the way for the washing
before the suds are let loose
un-encumbered
to trample the dirt from the shirt.
Thank you both, John and Susan,
together patching my memory back today,
with the e-copy sent
of the hand written note
John made
of a phrase
he bright-eyed cast at me
at that wicked word poetry night.
Stitching a kindly spoken phrase,
back onto the shirt sleeve of a fleeting shared conversation
that meant so much to the labouring me.
Forgotten but not mislaid.
A phrase well met I trust.
'Let us move at his pace,
his rhythm is the tempo of wisdom' .
Blessings
Posts
