The Fence

The Fence Twenty panels of wooden fence Three pots of paint and she commenced Stroked up and scrubbing down Changed the bare wood into a brown All alone she toiled on and on The sun came up and went down Nothing prevented her liquid stain Up and down again and again She came to the tricky door Zigzag joins, hinges, drips on the floor Brushes bristles full of beige She painted on, in silent crusade His mother, is my wife A natural achiever all her life On she went just like a train Painted each knot with the deepest stain. Looking back, a satisfied grin The fence painted by the third tin I watched in awe, this one-day stand Washed her brushes cleaned her hands David Cox 29/05/23