Carmel Alakus

Parents milk cows,

One sultry afternoon.

Mum in summer-dress.

Goes to engine-room.

A half-metre above

The greasy floor

A naked spindle 

Whirls with speed.

Breeze billows skirt.

Spindle catches tip,

Savagely entwines it.

Mum screams, ‘Tom.’

He’s milking cows.

He doesn’t hear.

Spindle turns dress, 

Around on itself.

Not yet 3,

I’m playing outside

Chasing the calves.

Mum’s cries unheard.

Mum caught in a spindle - 1953

The dress now’s

Round her neck.

It’s strangling her.

Dragging her head-first

Towards the spindle.

She screams louder.

No person hears.

No person comes.

What to do?

So near safety-switch

Just can’t reach.

Braces one foot

Against the wall.

Readies second foot.

Before it slips,

Hits the wall. 

There’s no time.

There is time.

Feet astride switch.

One green button,

One red button.

Can she reach?

She does reach.

Presses red button.

Machines stop dead.

Chugging sounds cease.

Mum caught in a spindle - 1953

Cows’ cups fall

From their udders

Onto concrete floor.

Cows lowing, upset,

Trample fallen cups.

Arch their backs,

Lift tails, wee,

Poop, cow dung

Sprays over everything.

Stench combines with

Cows’ hot sweat.

Flies swarm biting. 

Protesting cows kick 

In protest, fear. 

Leg ropes loosened

Some fall away.

My father shocked.

‘Where the hell

Can Doreen be?’

Checks engine room. 

I enter dairy.

Mum caught in a spindle - 1953

Mum’s dress halved.

With dress’s belt

The middle secured

To hold garment

On one side.

The other side

Just bra ‘n pants. 

Her face calm.

I go play

Again with calves.

Parents milk cows.

Copyright Carmel Alakus, September 2024. All rights reserved; this intellectual property belongs solely to Carmel Alakus.

About Carmel Alakus

In my writing there’s a tension between the country girl I once was and the tertiary educated, city dweller I am now. My piece Mum caught in a spindle 1953 describes a farm accident when dangerous farm machinery wasn’t routinely covered. People were expected to be on their mettle. Today, in some quarters, safety is still ignored.

I remember wanting to write ever since I was a child.  Now retirement allows more time to do just that. In addition, U3A’s Community of Writers provides a supportive forum and has inspired me to write pieces that may one day form a memoir. 

My career as a social worker honed a commitment to social justice, seeded during my childhood. Over the years I wrote regular articles in a social work newsletter, occasional articles in social work journals and co-authored chapters in social work textbooks.

Monsieur Montreux with names changed, reflects an experience I had as a young social worker. Practice has changed since then, not always for the better.