I Love My Washing Line

I love my washing line.

In one place we lived, in Canada, hanging laundry outside was forbidden. Perhaps there are Canadian gentlemen who don't yet know that women wear knickers. But my babies wore beautiful white nappies (diapers) and those dipies hated being in the hot tumble drier. They longed for the freedom of the open skies and sunshine. I used to furtively hang them on a rack in our enclosed patio, where they were safe from the laundry police.

Now, we live in the Island of Fluttering Laundry, where gardens are so small we are all treated to the sight of eachothers' intimate clothing on a daily basis. I love it. I love taking in a duvet cover from the line and putting it on my bed and smelling the freshness on it it in bed that night. I love drying my unmentionables (used on a monthly basis) in the open air. I adored my babies' bottoms when clad in soft fluffy cotton, dried in the blossom-scented open. (Cue Elgar's anthem 'Land of Hope and Glory' at this point.)

Aaaah, I could write a poem.
Yes.
I could.
And I think I will.
Don't try to stop me.

Ode to My Washing Line
**********************
Washing, waving to me on the line,
my laundry liberated
from the firey hell of the drier.

Flutter freely
in your airy ecstasy.
I will smell you later,
and drink deep draughts of spring.

One thing I ask of you, my fluttering fancy-things.
Try not to get pooped on by the chattering starlings.

What? No knickers?

As if I'd blog them.