Ann-Marie Spittle

PORT TALBOT RAIN

The air smelt like Satan’s armpit
Indistinguishable to the trapped souls
Sinuses burned out long ago
By the sulphurous haze in the air

She walked to the line
Carrying her testament to the world
Of bashing and crashing
Buffering and bleaching
Wooden stakes
Hangers of the dead
Racks of torment
Of the Washing Inquisition

Heaves a sigh
Settles down to tea and cake
Sustenance of the soul
In front of the one eyed monster

CRASH!

Heavens open
The devil’s spit falls heavily
Poker dotting the white snow
Satan’s marker pen joins the dots
Spelling damnation
For the cleansed

Rushing
Running
Unclipping
Grabbing
Well won pathway
On automatic
Back to the machine
The souls must be purged
At the hands of the wash day Torquemada
For their failure to follow
The stainless path of her religion
Until properly chastised
They sit in rows
Of well groomed splendour
Giving grace to the God of washday
The Sun in the sky
And the Holy Ghost of bleach

Author’s Note: I used to live on an industrial estate and when it rained everything got dirty. This is a tribute to all the women who fought against the dirt there.

Submitted for the August 2008 IWVPA Theme Project, “The Weather”