Linen on the line is pegged. These trousers have stood
under speedy equatorial sunsets. Here, spider-spun cotton: a shirt that has
floated in the Bay of Bengal: bought on the streets of Malapuram. It flails now
in the heated howl that blasts also through the house and slams a door and all
of it evokes a beach under the brew of a tropic storm.
Every piece of washing hung gets an extra peg, and is
left to dervish-dance. The wind is a puppeteer: garments, like puppets, have a
history, a seeming life.
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| We calculate it will be July 20th 2015 by the time we've viewed ALL of Boy's India adventure photos :-) |
What exuberance! Your post has a cadence I've felt only when dancing with Sufis --like square dancing but with fewer hicks, I like both. Surely these are the shirts of universal peace! I loved this post.
ReplyDeleteAll dancing is fine with me! This is a post that I wrote, sighed, thought: oh, that will do- then reread and understood what it was about. Love it when I surprise myself!
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