Winter Washday

Clothes barely smudged by living, yet, for our peace of mind,
we throttle them with suds, watch mesmerised as, behind
swirling glass, they are rinsed through every fibre —
as we would wish for ourselves, at times? Bundles are
hoisted, unfurled for winds to do their will:
toss the most surely pegged shirt over its shoulders,
twist to a knot the tea-towel ablaze with kitchen colours.
The line runs between palings and oak tree, an ageless
form shadowing limp underwear, and the mindless
tease of stockings flung in a tangle round someone's
trouser leg. Still, the line keeps its dignity: that nightdress,
an unfrilled blue, sways softly beside
the boys' and man's pyjamas.
Sheets flap in greens, wild purples, dyed deeper by
nature's unsubtle stains. Each article carries a history
of love and use and waste. Brightest, most ephemeral,
the toddler's wardrobe, varied as a film star's: at every spill
or leakage a quick change by the woman whose knuckles
now are turning red with cold as — humming spells
against rain — she pegs, a leaf reclaimed, that last yellow sock.