She did the washing e’vry Monday morn,
All fabrics sorted in different piles,
The wrung-out whites shone brighter than the dawn,
While flapping in the wind and sunshine smiles.
Dark blues that swish and swirl in the machine,
The Wrangler jeans worn on Saturday night,
And those frilly things that are only seen
Upon the washing line, hidden from sight.
Her tutting sigh - the fabric is too scant,
She looked at me with unbelieving eyes,
I’m folding up her bleached white bloomer pants,
No longer the child full of endless whys.
Yet still we sat drinking our cups of tea,
Some things never changed for my Nan and me.
Form: English Sonnet