My home was once a soap factory
my old man tells visitors,
of a family slaving over hot pots,
rendering mutton fat in the heat.
Water dripped through wood ash,
saponifying soap,
before pouring down cellar steps,
onto the road below.
Our basement’s now a cold kitchen,
large windows gaze on moors,
the village sprawls,
with other cottage homes.
Families lived and worked together.
Not unlike now? In our post-Covid, PC world,
where anti-bacterial hand gel
fills our bathrooms.
Sonia asks
“Can we still smell the soap?”