A Washer at the Ford

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.