Monday morning.

The dew from the grass sits lightly on her woollen slippers

Her breasts push against her nightdress

As she lifts the washing to the clothesline dripping

With last night’s rain and tiny spiders.


The smell of spring dances in the air

The first sun across the rooftops is warm

And the fog of diesel

From Bus 121 wanders across the yard like a friendly dog.


 Down the lane, between King and Ray Streets

School students make their way slowly, laughing

Kicking a ball against the iron fences.

Their voices are rising, washing over the quiet morning.


As she watches,

The boys with their damp hair

And the girl’s neat braids,

She sighs.


At twenty-one

With two children and another load of washing to do

All that she once hated about high school,

She longs to do again.

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