Mrs Pendleton

Monday morning, up at dawn
before anyone stirs,
Quietly, on slippered feet,
she creeps into the scullery
To light the boiler.

Half-past eight.
breakfast over, her place maintained
as first out with the washing
on a line slung across the back lane.
Pillowcases fat with air, whistle clean sheets
flapping and cracking in the breeze.

Mrs Pendleton, head in a mob cap.
Apron strings tied at the front
twice wrapped around a narrow waist
Rasping red hands rubbing
As she prays for fine weather.

Ice blue eyes, scan the lane,
for wagons, horses with carts,
children in muddy boots,
That might sully the
white as new-fallen snow
of the washing.