Home again each month like a stranger,

he has three days’ turnaround

between trips for you to wash

his gear – which leaves you

barely two when, on his final day,

you’d rinse off his luck.

 

So let him mooch with mates,

while you heat the copper and soak

his long johns, socks and ganseys

in that soup of frothing water,

teasing fibres matted

with blood, scales, spatter.

 

And when you’ve sluiced

and sluiced the greasy suds away,

lift the dripping weight of wool

that you will wring to dankness

and then force down

a mangle’s tight-lipped throat.

 

If weather’s bad, God help us!

as once again you pray for days

of providential breezes –

for though he never says,

you know he’ll love that freshness:

its pliant warmth, its laundered smell.