poem - I put my Washing out to blow!

I put my Washing out to blow!
  
I put my washing out to blow,
in a green garden, of trees in wind,
saw the whirly-gig spin three times round.

At the edges, Sweet Chamomile and Tiger Lilies grow,
My cotton-rich clothes, bathed in non-bio crowned
by Roses, Michaelmas Daisies, who had sinned, 

Now clung together, tight as Devotees, a jiggle in a row.
The brightness of sunshine spinning, in crystal air, so thin.
I saw the garden's July Grin.  Displayed in a havoc spin.

Wild Chicory, Chives, a firm blessing of the ground.
My feet bare - in Norfolk's pelt of rich purple Clover.
I'd not wish for fairer, I'd not wish for more.  

When I go in, will this wild swing wind die?
Would I wish for pacific blue, and prairie grass,
if not this perfect wildness of our weather.

Oh! Look up to the treetops, aprons spread wide - 
sway in a Dryad's dance of seasons hottest rim.
Wild through it is.  The washing's dried.

(c) 2016 RJL