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.
I never tire of your fine writing and the blips of being in your fine daily life.
ReplyDeletePS. Yep, this is me, formally Lost in Provence but since I linked up with Google +, trying to be more modern, all has gone kablooey.
Hello Heather- I have a real name now too! It does seem simpler, which is okay, I think. Your compliment is very much appreciated, thank you :-)
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