Laundry Day

There was a time, before my time,
When laundry day meant going down to the river.
It meant washboards and elbow grease and freezing fingers.
On laundry day white sheets were strung up on the land,
Billowing in the wind and filtering bright sunlight onto green grass and daffodils.
The sweet smell of soaps must have filled the air,
Alighting gently with the warmth of the sun.
I can just imagine looking down on a little town.
To me it would have seemed like clouds pinned to the ground,
Undulating lazily in the breeze among the flowers.