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ironing in the semi-detached,

saturday afternoons that have already

blended into night time in November,

do you remember,

as you throw things away out of drawers,

your mother maybe in an apron

(not as I recall her, shrunken, beaten,

white-haired, drinking ginger wine

out of a flask, in an old people’s home)

but young, trodden on by circumstance,

arriving at dawn in strange halls of big houses,

or in rain, shivering outside doors?

 

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