I dreamt of my mother’s egg-blue peg bucket

and how the clatter of rain

on the scullery window sent

her heartbeat racing.

I remember us scurrying

down the backyard

to free her hung dry clothes

from their pegged wooden captors.

She watched as we yanked disrespectfully,

faded jeans and t-shirts flailing

and the pegs snapping,

reluctantly letting go.

I remember watching her at the window, staring.

Lost in a memory of before us.

Her line then, blew soft linen and lace

Dresses from a time when she lived

a life, delicately unleashed like sails

on a warm autumn breeze.

I dreamt of seeing her last line, uncollected.

Her redundant blue peg bucket had faded.

The anniversaries of decay left rusted cavities,

and the alchemy of rain

made the flakes of rust seem golden,

aged with her in autumn.

Dry and delicate.