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
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