I can see them outside. I can see them swinging, swaying, rhythmic then clumsy. I watch them a while. The dog watches too, his breath thick at my side. He wants to go out. I push the door ajar and he runs through, but startled by a sudden movement is back.
They are nameless, anonymous. I cannot see faces but sense belonging. The fabric colours, ones I would choose? Perhaps that is it. From my viewpoint the garden flowers dance too, nodding and bobbing.
I catch a glimpse of underwear. It’s revealing. I smile and enjoy a memory. I hope a neighbour will not glimpse the same. Oh the shame! But it is early. Windows reflecting without observation.
Navy trousers. Dull? No top. No top! A bra. Odd socks annoy me, but thankfully, another twirl and I see they are a pair.
The lady’s dress is fun. Floral and frilly, caught up in a gust the underskirts flash crimson layers. I wonder if it is warm enough out there. The sun is brightening but the breeze is growing stronger.
And then it is spoilt. The wind swipes and jumbles them. Some drop where they are, some are torn away, flipped over and tossed down. I need to get out there, some look dreadful.
I sit watching the patterns swirl, the colours soaked and dark. The circling mesmerises me and I relax. I’ll hang it back out later.