Ironing is her favourite task.
The rhythm and the steam
transport her to an outer state
more vivid than a dream –
a place of creased and crumpled hills,
a wet and heavy land
through which a burning body moves,
directed by her hand.
Each stroke a stride, the rugged earth
dissolves into a plain
whence she can touch the brooding clouds
and taste the coming rain.
This wide expanse, this untrod moor
she spreads out fresh each day
and, godlike, when she’s done with it
she folds the world away.
