Poems

Barbara Fisher: ‘Drying’ and ‘Remington Music’

Drying It took us by surprise to walk into that village somewhere in Italy all those years ago to find the hedges, bushes and any low-lying branches dressed in white, strewn with washing spread to dry. How good that linen must have smelt —lavender and herbs and pine— and full of sun and air when gathered up. My grandmother would have marvelled at the village women’s lack of lines or props or hoist. She who loved “a good drying day” and the decorum of properly pegged clothes (underwear behind the towels), relished the slap and crackle of sheets blowing in…

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