by Hazel Hall

stoking the stove— her aunt’s and mother’s weary eyes— their work-worn hands— seven kids
to bathe and bed before time of their own— ‘skin the rabbit’ they say— girls first— stripped one
by one— slipped in the tub of hot creek water— scrubbed with that nasty pink soap— backs and
bums red raw— dried with horrid hessian towels— once farm-fodder bags

(rat-a-tat of machines— cows in bales munching— meal-dusted muzzles— blissful eyes— ears flicking flies)

a grandmother now— she recalls that old tin tub— the baggy towel— those precious times— brimful
with rough love— worth more than golden nuggets