Lucy Anne Watt

When wrung, she’d prop
the sheets and towels
behind the taps.
Sometimes, she’d

let me try,
but I couldn’t get
the pressure to roll
and twist into a firm

packed dampness.
Mine were soaked,
floppy; she had to
wrench again

her plump,
sun-spotted hands
quite unstressed.
‘A good wind’

She’d raise her head
to the window,
taking in
an angle of her

pegged, tautened
work, that
lifting, sweetening.