Our washing machine busies itself; zips and buttons catch the inverted dome of glass door, add chinks of percussion to the comforting rumble.
The sky lies low, hot, heavy with cloud: one imagines it panting, a grey dog.
I wonder if a storm is due, but the birds are not silent. They chirrup shrill from branches and guttering pipes.
The rain has stopped. The house is cluttered, though clean.
Thoughts light on the next bout of clearing in our small space.
We have a dream, we work towards it.
Meanwhile, one admires the absence of dust.
It is still not raining as the washing cycle spins out.
Washing on the line is blue and white, beach hut colours.