Poem of the Day

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He’s washing the windows across the road,

The Window Man in his yellow hat

He bends down low and he rubs the glass

With a sponge the shade of a ginger cat.


His hand goes round and round and round,

Then his head comes up to the middle bit

As he rubs away at a grubby patch

And helps it along with a lick of spit.


When he grips the sponge the corner points

Like a single ginger-pussy’s ear.

His long rag looks like a pussy’s tail,

But I don’t know what that’s doing here.


The sky grows dark, and a thunder clap

That makes me jump, sends him to the porch.

The clouds are so dark I can hardly see –

I wonder, won’t he need a torch?


The rain teems down, and the thunder booms.

He leans out to see if the clouds will break

As hail rattles down on his yellow hat –

And he drops his sponge, for goodness sake!


Their dog slinks in to avoid the hail

And seizes the sponge, then dodges round,

Growling and chewing. The Man yells, ‘Hoy!’

And it drops it out in the pouring rain.


Now the sponge has legs, but it’s lost its tail,

And its head is a funny sort of shape,

But the Window Man leaps off the porch

To grab it  — in case it decides to escape?


He squeezes the rain out and growls at the dog,

Who shrinks in the corner, her head on her paws,

While the Window Man drips. He could do with a squeeze!

But he’s got to get on with his windows and doors.


He ties up the sponge on the end of a stick

But there isn’t much left of its middle to rub,

For its legs wave about, and the stick scrapes along,

There just isn’t enough of the sponge left to scrub.


The top of the door glass is streaky all over.

He’s making it worse – what a silly chump.

Now his polishing rag is chewed up in the corner!

… the dog gives a yelp when the stick hits her rump.


As she leaps down the steps and gets lost round the corner

The Window Man’s rump hits the mat with a bump.

His angry roar lost in the roar of the thunder,

He rubs at his forehead. Ouch, what a lump!


I cannot imagine whatever he’ll do –

But all my own window’s covered with breath.

This cushion’s foam! So I grab my coat

And run to make up for his sponge’s death …


What would you think of a mum who ran

To save her cushion from the Window Man?

Dorothy B Williams















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