My clothes are hanging, wistfully,
upon my washing line,
they are not forgotten
but they are out there
confronting the lashing rain -
little hope of them drying this evening.

And they make a pretty picture –
the greens, the purples, the reds,
the lacey black knickers.

And so they will hang
until the sun shines
because I am loathe
to put them in the tumble dryer
because then,
they will fail to inhale
the sweet fragrance
of midsummer barley fields.