Multicoloured mountains

Hello!! ✨

Welcome back to another post here at Poetic Inclinations.

I’m Damian. I live here in an old goldfields town in Victoria, Australia.

This poem is another poem based on a childhood memory. Perhaps all poems originate from that land of memories and dreams. 

Growing up, we had a big backyard with a long path leading down to an old-fashioned clothesline. Which was a length of wire strung between two ‘bush poles’ (poles cut from tree trunks). In the middle of the clothesline was a longer, narrower pole that could be propped up higher to lift the clothes higher. 

It is springtime here in southern Australia. And in springtime, we often get a few warmer days in a row, a cool change comes in, and we get wet and windy weather. Which can still be good for drying clothes, if you are lucky. But a sudden downpour can lead to a mad dash out to save the laundry. 

I can still feel the freezing cold raindrops on my head and smell the big mountain of freshly washed and dried clothes and sheets as I carry them in. Proud to be helping Mum out. 

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Photo by Tiberiu Popa on Unsplash

Multicoloured mountains

In the city where I now stand,
my clothes blend in perfectly—
grey as the streets,
like his and like hers.

I remember when I was a child,
how, when it rained,
we would race to the clothesline
with our mother laughing,
without a basket—
she would heap the clothes into our proud little arms.

Little multicolored mountains,
we'd stagger up the garden path,
the big raindrops only hitting our heads,
splashing joy in unexpected showers.

Now, the rain feels different here,
less a play, more a grey veil
over the city's hurried pace.
Yet, sometimes, a sudden downpour
and the laughter of a child
racing to shelter,
stirs the memory—
bringing back the vivid colors
of those mountains we once were.