All around,
walls of cloud. Propped above, precarious, a blue sky. Washing on the line all
day, in sun and brisk wind, is drier but not dry: holds a scent of autumn, an
apple-spice, cool air smell. Each peg unclipped drops into the pot, each item
lumps into the basket. Starlings make their massed flights, indistinctly edged
against the pallid glare of sun. In the field behind one pheasant whirrs up,
wings so mechanical. Cat is curled, sheltered, by the flowerpots. Dog pushes
her nose along the grass. In the kitchen the Rayburn is lit, the washing up is
regrouping, is always regrouping. Hot sticky swirls of rosehip line the big
pan.
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