poem - I put my Washing out to blow!
I put my Washing out to blow!
I put my washing out to blow,
in a green garden, of trees in wind,
saw the whirly-gig spin three times round.
At the edges, Sweet Chamomile and Tiger Lilies grow,
My cotton-rich clothes, bathed in non-bio crowned
by Roses, Michaelmas Daisies, who had sinned,
Now clung together, tight as Devotees, a jiggle in a row.
The brightness of sunshine spinning, in crystal air, so thin.
I saw the garden's July Grin. Displayed in a havoc spin.
Wild Chicory, Chives, a firm blessing of the ground.
My feet bare - in Norfolk's pelt of rich purple Clover.
I'd not wish for fairer, I'd not wish for more.
When I go in, will this wild swing wind die?
Would I wish for pacific blue, and prairie grass,
if not this perfect wildness of our weather.
Oh! Look up to the treetops, aprons spread wide -
sway in a Dryad's dance of seasons hottest rim.
Wild through it is. The washing's dried.
(c) 2016 RJL