Putting Out Washing

David Penn

The clothes swing on the line.
You spike them down with pegs,
Your eyes set tight against the sun.

You magic sheets, pyjamas, trouseres, pants
And little dresses
From the tub you bathe us in beside the fire.

I watch you from the pear tree,
Good at hiding.
In the woind your raven hair turns back as snakes' heads,
Biting you.

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