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# A Washer at the Ford
- URL: https://www.lorelorn.com/a-washer-at-the-ford/
- Published: 2026-08-01T19:13:00.000Z
- Updated: 2026-10-30T19:21:35.000Z
- Author: The Commonplace
- Tags: Poetry, Alison Marsh, NEW MOUTHS, #contributor

My aunt said never stop  
if you hear washing at night.

Not singing.  
Washing.

She was particular about that.

There’s a bend past Kilcrea  
where the road dips  
and the river comes close enough  
you can smell it through the hedge.

She saw her there once.

Or said she did.

A woman bent over the water  
with something red in her hands.

Not a dress.

My aunt always stopped there  
and changed the subject.

She said the woman had no shoes.  
She said her hair was grey.  
Then another year she said black.

I asked which.

She told me to shut up  
and peel the potatoes.

Someone in the village died after.  
That part changed too.

Sometimes it was a Murphy boy  
kicked by a horse.

Sometimes an old man  
whose lungs had been bad anyway.

Once she said nobody died  
and I reminded her.

She stared at me for a long time.

You think death has to come  
the same week?

That evening she took the washing in  
before dark.

Years later  
I walked that road alone.

Nothing at the ford, just 

water knocking stones about.  
A shopping bag caught in the reeds.

I stood there longer than I should have.

Then something pale  
turned once under the bridge.

Could have been cloth.

I didn’t go down to see.