Janet Charman

the wimmin squatted
by the dirty creek
drying out the poems
from the pockets in the wash

some had been beaten on rocks and were softer
one hard one
was stretched out    weighted down with stones
and when the sun broke on it
most couldn’t watch

the words became darker
and yet strangely
harder to recognise

a woman pitied this drying
and shook her wet hair
into the folds

the words ran into each other
the sentence
changing subtly
contracting
beginning to shine black
as it dissolved

© Janet Charman

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Last updated 11 May 2001