My Washing Lines continue. I’m not quite sure of this one, it doesn’t seem quite right yet, but that’s the thing with your own writing, you can change it endlessly. Washing Lines is the title of my never to be published collection of short poetic pieces (I can’t really call them poems) inspired by my experiences with the washing and ironing. The other day my husband very kindly hung the washing out for me. I think it may be true that each regular hanging-washing-out-ret has their own way of doing it. I’ve leaned a lot from my cousin with her method, but was flattered to see she had adopted my way of hanging out trousers. The wife of another cousin has another way of putting her washing out, as does my friend in the Netherlands. I was pleased and grateful my husband had done it, but as we sat in the early spring sunshine, I couldn’t help but notice he had put things out differently from me, and a poetic thought began to creep. This is the yet to be polished result:
My Husband Hangs Out With the Washing
I didn’t put the washing out,
But there it hangs. The gown is pegged
The wrong way up,
The knickers too, flapping lazy in the sun,
But yes, the boy done good.
The shirts three-pegged,
The trousers by their legs,
The jumper sags without a middle peg
But hangs correctly.
The socks in pairs, well done,
I never do but maybe should.
The birds applaud,
The crew of sparrows in the hedge,
The blackbird carols in the neighbour’s tree,
A mystery singer in a distant bush,
The drone of Mr Ivey strimming grass,
And soon the washing will be dry.