The Washing Line
Upon the washing line, I’m firmly pegged,
The garden is still, no song from any bird,
Until a tap and tap and tap is heard.
A man emerges from the shed,
Stick in hand he ambles down the path,
Hobbled by the accident’s aftermath.
A hand stretches up, and grasps my ankle,
And with a tug, and a ping of the line,
The one legged man says ‘That sock is mine’.