Quick, bring in the washing
tangled round the line like it’s learning the trapeze.
Flick off pegs and plans
for walking to the park. Unclench
the concertina doors
from glass and timber self-embrace
even as partitions screech and plead—
pane by pane squealing over rubber tracks.
Watch grey clouds flex
and darkly thicken. Feel the prickle of something
a rumble and stir. Note, the birds
have disappeared—all song and twitter
plucked from sky like a scene without a soundtrack.
Dog growls. We dither
question if there’s time
to fold away the shade umbrella, finish
poems or make another cup of tea
because it comes
it comes, and it will bring
the wash and cry, the lash and howl
the thunderous pelt and pour.
Yet still, we wait.
Air cools. Skies sigh and nothing
nothing comes at all.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 28, Issue 4.
Kate Maxwell grew up in a small, rural community in Australia. Now a teacher and a city dweller, her interests include film, wine, and sleeping. She has published in journals such as Australian Poetry Journal, The Galway Review, Books Ireland, and The Threepenny Review. Kate’s poetry and fiction have been awarded and listed in various Australian and international anthologies and competitions. She has recently published her third poetry collection, Thistle (Recent Work Press, 2026).
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