The washerwoman and refractions

A twist of fabric becomes its own whip

the broad back of the ghat+ an attack on grease

soap suds form a bubble between the hits

a see through glob, sea-blue on the breeze

not that the dhobin* has time to notice

a refracted sun of corkscrewed perspective.

I am entranced and terrified by turns;

she knows to ignore paralysing angst.

Each lens refracts its individual sun

all fabrics have their bricks and riverbanks;

whatever the tint and tilt of the lens

the truth lies always beyond the refractions.

+ Paved riverbank

* Washerwoman