The washing machine happily churns
grey water into frothy mounds of whipped white suds.
Fussy lace tablecloths skip hand in hand with sensible gingham
on a line stretched between two giant fir trees.
Coloured socks line up in pairs between dressing gown and blue jeans.
The wind and I work together on wash day, though I rather think
it is trying to undo what I have accomplished,
as bed sheets are torn from my fingers before I can pin them to the line.
But I don’t mind, we are both enjoying ourselves
and tonight the scent of fresh blown linens on my bed
will be reward enough.
©Sharron R. McMillan