I am the talk of the village,
Hanging out undies in mid November
When the mountains are snow capped
And the wind is wheeling the whirly gig
In sub-zero blusters.
But when this morning turned up
With a tangerine sun spewed on roof tiles
And a sky split open like that last free day in March
I rummaged through mucky clothes,
Separating darks and lights.
And now they flip and flap, and high five the sky
Like primary coloured kites
In a sub-zero November sun.
I am the talk of the village
Because I’ve pegged out woollens too,
Rammed the lines in a slap-dash
Rush because the sun is at its height
And the shadows that lurk behind the trees
Will soon spill onto the porch.
And I know my laundry won’t dry in this sub-zero sunshine,
But will collect instead,
The wind that skims the
Heather trimmed mountain crags,
And spray from the thrashing river.
And only when the shadows come
And the wood smoke weaves
A waft into the wool, will I unclip those pegs,
Hang damp washing inside,
Out of sight, on the clothes horse instead
And remember the day
When villagers nattered in windows frames
And my knickers danced free.