There is a sweet feeling, 
Pegging out the washing
Watching my hands age 
along the line.
This inner knowing
Of the right way to
hang the clothes.
Maybe my Grandmothers 
are talking through me 
as I peg the next to the next.
This pleasing practice, 
Embedded in my bones,
Of the women, the wind, the dazzling sun.
Did they have moments like this?
Early morning dew in Spring?
I imagine my lineage of women,peg to peg, listening to birdsong, looking at their own hands year after year.
My line of coastal dwellers, 
Salty air,
Swinging clothes in sunlight,
Clothes of colours to old worn comforts. 
Seagulls hovering for a bit of bread,
The dry lines and cold fingers,
Their hands,
My hands,
Now look the same.