shifting & snagging
creating & ruining
simultaneously approaching & leaving
directional & meandering
lifting, caressing, drifting
distracted, focussed & eager
coating, cleansing & clearing
one & everything
out of nowhere, everywhere
carving routes to another place.
Robert, the last documented micro-entrepreneur, reached the door of the bank just as the lock clicked. He rushed to the library to access the internet, but austerity raced him there and shut the door. He was cross, hot and thirsty, unable to access vital funds to buy that last drop of –
dripping, pouring, gushing
back to the beginning
ready to run again – water
Alone in the old bathroom, I crouched,
steaming, in a towel, the warmth
of a recent bath rising from my skin;
long childhood locks lifted in a plastic cap.
While grown-ups thought I bathed, I took a brush
and scrubbed the bath to new. I drew with crayons
made of soap. And wondering what it was to shave,
cut my leg on Dad’s sharp razor blade.
Bath time brought adventure: a metal rack
packed with loofah, sponge, a blue dish
to fill and empty, clean and crinkled fingers
rubbed together with rudish shlucking sounds.
At school, where girls combined to wash,
communal ablutions diluted any sense of fun;
privacy and prudery washed away in timetabled
titivation. All residue of childhood Vimmed.
When chemo winter stole my hair and I was cold,
my constant comfort was a simple bath of tin,
filled from the kitchen sink. Lapped by life
I could be consoled by water, spirited again.