washing strung up damp and limp,
hanging there and hanging straight and not a breath of wind.
And neither warm,
balmy heat of summer gone,
feels a little cooler now and days soon growing short.
Feels a little like the waiting calm before the storm.
Before the change,
breeze that's blowing our way,
building up for home and work and nothing stays the same.
Stranger things have happened than to end up where you dare.
Where you breathe,
where your line of eye is clear,
where the future fills your sails with sky and stone and sea.
Stretching long in little cot,
no more room and growing tall,
field and wood and who would move from such a pretty spot.
Long for edge of land and beach,
once we're there I'll never leave,
big and bold and brave enough to set a change of scene.
Shore and wave and countryside,
different window, different life,
northern air and northern place and northern windswept wife.
Washing strung on sheltered line,
hanging there to never dry,
time to whistle up a wind and time to hold on tight.
Feels a little like the calm before the changing tide.
If you enjoy my writing you might enjoy my little book - A Familiar Voice.
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