Wet Nights

 On wet nights the washing line

                                hangs slack,
gently swung by the breath
                                of a breeze,
rousing the sleeping flowers
and fondling drowsy trees.

 

A strand of flashing droplets slide,
                                 a slow glide,
slip united, smooth as oil,

                                 pendent,

turn to jewels, glittering
and trembling from a woman’s ear.



© Sue Burley