Down the stream beneath the trees, the fairies wash their clothes with ease;
A tiny spell, a bit of soap, which smells of charms and flowers and hope,
Then to the clothesline draping wide, where all the garments fey are dried.
And scarce a happen-byer knows, that what they’re gazing on is clothes.
Each purple swag holds dresses fine, as tiny blouses, pants entwine,
To pass for flowers or stems of grapes, they fool on-lookers with their shapes
Of fulsome fruitness, flowery blooms, instead of treasures from fey looms,
All stitched with moonbeams, needles gold, and gossen strands too fine to hold.
The wardrobes wee, of fragile cloths, with iridescent dust from moths
And drops from dew and minnow shine, spread gleaming high upon the line.
The purples, royals, and the pinks, of dahlia’s tears and lovers’ inks
In dyepots stirred with spell-whirled spoons, and hung to dry beneath Milk Moons.
The sea and sky lend fairest hues, and rainbow’s BIV spins varied blues,
Whilst trees and arbors, lushest dells contribute to the greening swells
Which spread across the lines for strength, in lush profusion length by length.
And yellow, orange, palest peach, all ride the breeze just out of reach
Of all save those whose provenance enables them to join the dance
Of garments magical and twee, of ribbons pressed on cricket’s knee,
Of robes and circlets, orbs, tiaras, entitling them for all tomorrows,
To wear the magic, shining bright, and yet, still be immune from sight.
Thoughts thrown out at midnight, for Janie's inestimable Wisteria Clothesline
And joining in with Beverly’s PINK SATURDAY.