A little girl in a grubby singlet runs around the clothesline, barefoot, shouting, arms outstretched as if flying. Sheets snap at her, driven by the breeze and she delights in their wet embrace, laughing as she extracts herself from their clammy arms.

 Her mother flaps at her impatiently, a mouth full of pegs muffling the threats the child knows may soon be realised.

Yet she cannot resist the dance of the sheets, round and round, always round, for the sheets are prisoners too. 

Once, she climbed the clothesline to release them from their restraints, sure they would fly free. They fell, a wet heap on a dusty ground and her elation sagged as quickly as they did.

Her mother forbade her to touch the washing line again.

But sometimes, when her mother isn’t watching, she climbs the clothesline and swings, spinning freely, like the sheets, on a beautiful windy day.