She steps out,
wash basket moulded to casual hip;
setting it down,
separates mangled colours.
A blind hand finds the bucket of pegs.
Hemline rises and dips: sock, sock,
skirt. Nose pressed to white towel
– her eye is caught,
I cannot tell if by bird or tiredness.
She wants to jump the fence.
… No, that makes no sense.
She knows from which direction the wind blows;
what angle eave shadows fall.
Spider web at her feet.
Oh, for a turn on the clothesline.
Pinned by centrifugal forces.
Hung out to dry,
flattened against soft skin,
slowly wrapped around or pulled
fresh and clean over her body.