I know I will always see you
in the garden of the house in the clearing,
pegging out washing
on the sloping lawn,
surrounded by the forest.
It is August;
the shadows are small;
there is the scent of trees
and the sounds of insects
shimmering around you in the heat.
You stoop, case
pick another apron from your basket;
a quick flick of the wrist
and a crack of wet fabric sprays the lawn,
before you drape and peg.
Then you glance upwards,
over the clothes-line
into the dazzle of sky,
and I wonder
can you see me waving?
Lakeside Poetry Competition 2004
