Bath Night

Our tin bath hung
on a nail in the shed,
smooth silvery alp
to a scrabbling spider
casting a bolas
of grey beady web
under a roof
of rippled asbestos.

Friday nights filled it
with Camlough Lake water.
Shuddering, goose-pimpled
in coal-tar suds,
dulled with grime
and a week's sweat,
we splashed in front of
the kitchen fire.


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