Grand Day For The Washing

 Grand Day For The Washing

The washing lines of Ireland are

Working overtime

There’s not a pillowcase or sheet

Left to languish in its chamber

Unadorned

With sweet smelling febreze

The mattress face is liberally coated

Heaving and grunting

It’s changed head-to-feet

In anticipation of a softer sleep

The linen cupboard –

The hotpress as it’s named –

Elbow deep, its contents

Is wrestled from its dark recesses

Faded sheets and bits and pieces

Pressed into service

To battle it out with winter grime

Every window in the house

Flung wide to the brick

To let in this most welcome visitor of

Summer Sunshine

A fresh breeze from Croghan Hill

Like a cooling fan

Ruffles window curtaining

Summer smells enchant the senses

Awakening from slumber

Childhood recollections

When bedclothes flapping on the breeze

Was mothers’ domain

Well tread mats and dusty rugs

Rolled into circled ends

Playful fingers tracing

Patterns in the dust they leave

Loaded onto small sturdy helpers

Vibrant patterns of red and orange

Carelessly flung

A riot of colour against fences dulled

Stripped pasty by winter’s temper

Beneath a sailor suit blue sky

The summer garden seat perspires

Its fresh coat glistening like wet coconut

Waiting patiently to be noticed

Time to

Sit and read the book bought

In a Charity shop for

Whatever day the summer came

That day has come

But wait!

The roofspace –The attic is its name now

A virtual treasure trove:

Hordes of bits of broken toys and bed ends

Wheels off dolls’ prams

Old techno games machines

And 60s LPs

Sold on EBay as antiques now

And then there’s the Man Shed

Half empty tins of paint…

And jars of screws for any job…

Just in case…

And a bumper and number plate

From a car once owned years ago

And all before

The weather breaks… In June

GC Hill May 2017