Cotton and Bone
Washerwomen gather at the shore before dawn, casting out nets of silence and gray laundry, spreading beaten shapes across stone, hoping for the sun to rise and crack the cold that stiffens both cotton and bone. Soon they will gather their skirts into bundles, carrying out only what was brought, stepping through acres of rocks collected in childhood and shadows lying face-to-face in tall grass. Sister, sister tell me, How many days since we stood and watched the sun rise over olive groves and the faces of young men? How long since the song bird last lifted from our fields? We have tripped and fallen, lying sprawled upon the backs of our mother's dreams. Copyright © Anne Fraser
All Pages Copyright © 2003
All Rights Reserved
All poems owned by individual author and should not be reproduced without permision.