Today’s poem

WASHING DAYS AT SIX ACRES

I love to hang the

washing out, Watching the wind catch the

sleeves and sheets

Like sails on a ship, Scudding along Rushing clouds

And drying as they go. But . . .

I have realised the washing

is now just mine.

Neat row of underwear,

pretty colours,

One bra, one vest,

And my PJs.

Where is all the rest, not on

this line?

Gone are the yellow

T-shirts,

And the smart black ones

for best.

Stripy jaunty gaudy ones, Boxers, hankies and

a vest.

Bounding around looking

so bright

Some might say what

a fright!

But . . .

Where are his socks, black,

blue or grey,

Usually in pairs, odd

ones, too?

I hung the washing as

quickly as I could,

He didn’t even mind, taking

his time

And said I should.

So all was neat and tidy. He hung the shirts out straight With two pegs at the

bottom.

No fun,

No escape.

The wind it seemed to tease, No dancing in the breeze. The sheets that were

so tight

Had all but lost their fight. Until I quietly came along And gave them all

some hope.

I went back and pegged

them again

Just to let them go.

I gave them a chance

So the wind would blow And the washing

would glow.

The sheets became sails

on galleons.

The socks felt so

much better

When a tickle of air Flew right down to

the toe.

Now I hang out my own And look at the weather And sigh as I peg it my way. Yes . . . I still love to hang the

washing out.

But . . .

I miss smelling the

washing together

And the chance to fold When crisp and dry.

And hearing him say Where did that sock go? Maureen Carlile,

Horley, Surrey.