Ironing Poem by John Carter Brown

I like the smell of ironing
It makes me think of home,
Of when I was a youngster
Long before I'd writ' a poem.

That sense of real security
Remembered as a dream,
Embedded in mum's ironing-board
And floating in the steam.

The swishing, easy movement
Was always just the same,
It lulled me to the edge of sleep
While whispering my name.

The pile of clothes was endless
It must have been a chore
To have us kids supplying it,
Not one or two, but FOUR.

There is no smell like ironing
The scent is all it's own,
I liked it when I was a child,
I like it now I've grown.

And when the time for ironing
The clothes again does come,
I'll take in that unique perfume
And think again of mum.

Written Feb 1995