A key turned slowly in the latch
The creaking hinges on the door,
Did groan as it was opened
By a frail and bony hand,
That clenched the handle of a brush
Its wooden shaft was worn and smooth,
And then stepped out a lady
Curlers in her snow white hair.
She staggered as she made her way
Then down the steps into the yard,
To sweep the smoothen cobbled stones
With all the strength she had,
The bristles were so hard and coarse
They scraped and scubbed and scratched the floor,
Again, again she stroked and stroked
Until the job complete.
She puffed upon a cigarette
And never paused to tap the ash,
That grew there ever longer
Till it fell onto the ground,
Her bramley cheeks were grooved and lined
And bore the years that she had lived,
A life of toil in service
Yet she was now all alone.
She wore a tattered apron
That was grey as winter skies,
And dirty tartan slippers
For the bunions on her feet,
And still she swept in motion
Like the ticking of a clock,
Again, again she stroked and stroked
And knew no other way.
ANDREW BLAKEMORE
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sweeping-the-back-yard/
