Who would want them?
These squares of Egyptian cotton
you'd sworn by all your life. Claimed
only they could withstand your foghorn blasts.

This age of blow and bin has pushed them
to the side, long gone the loathed spit damp wipes
and who now sports one knotted as they paddle
under an August sun?

This morning we pegged them out, watched
them catch the breeze, like bunting strung
with waved goodbyes and for a moment
let ourselves believe it was you who worked the line.

Stephen Bone

If you have any thoughts on this poem, Stephen Bone would be pleased to hear them.