Bare Floors
(2010, 1943)
I’m pushing and dragging,
the length of our passageway,
a swivelling wide mop.
Morning sun filters through
the front door lead-lighting
brightening yesterday’s detritus,
mostly dust and dog hairs,
with tints of stained glass.
Whisk it all under the mop,
pause at the back door bin.
My job’s soon done –
the long red-gum floorboards
shine clear again.
Today’s foot traffic
may now begin.
*
They come back to mind,
the floors my father used to tend –
the things a Taranaki
country teacher
was left to do!
He keeps the school bee-hives,
runs the dairy-calf club,
even in an emergency
helps the village butcher,
mastering all the cuts.
It’s the break between terms.
Large cans have been delivered.
Opened – dark oil, its pong
nose-wrinkling strong!
I’m five, watching.
He rolls up his sleeves,
piles the desks and chairs away.
Now he's spreading oil
with a special mop
all over the parched bare boards.
Worn down all term, they were,
and soiled by children's
muddy boots and bare feet.
(See how dry wood tends
to splinter dangerously.)
Glistening and reeking floorboards
in three rooms and corridors
are left a few days –
the damp dark stain goes pale.
Soon it’s next term,
the freshness of the first week,
the old routines resumed,
the tramped-in dust and mud.
The infant mistress,
Miss Giddy, is kind to me.
Dad’s wearing a tie again,
pops outside for a smoke,
fresh air and a quiet cough.
Another de Reszke,
and I can have the packet.
Max Richards
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