The Washing Line
A
Andrew Blakemore
0
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The clothes now wave which hang upon
This tired old line that stretches from,
The house unto the garden's end
In winds that blow so strong,
With every gust there yields a chill
Of winter that does cruelly bite,
This bitter air is never still
And wails an eerie song.
Each garment there is pegged and spaced
Upon the line that bows and sags,
Beneath the weight of dampened sheets
And every sock and shirt,
Which dry within the morning sun
That shines between the racing clouds,
Yet there does lie a handkerchief
Of white within the dirt.
Fallen from the line it dwelt
Now stained with mud where once it held,
My tears I wept now washed away,
Yet I remember well,
The cause, the pain, the grief and hurt
The scars of which shall never heal,
Those memories fresh I'll leave it there
Exactly where it fell.
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