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,
With two children and another load of washing to do
All that she once hated about high school,
She longs to do again.