How much has it to do
with the smell in June
of frozen paddocks of rotting grass,

with anticipating
pikelets for lunch - fat, buttery ones
with dairy cow markings -

with the smell of dried towels
toughened in an icy southerly,
or folded singlets and cotton stays with rubber buttons

on a rack above a coal range; 
with looking up at hoisted tea-towels 
crowding the view

of the kitchen ceiling;
and the lack
of any such memories, that in America,

where Peggy comes from,
having a tumble dryer comes before
any clothesline, rotary or otherwise?
 
 

  © 1999