All points east.
Forceful gusts have taken up
the slack clothes line, compelled
a laundered horizontal.

I recall a childhood dread
the full-blown napery
whip-twisted with fearful faces
or phantoms outstretched
catching blind runners
in a suffocating grasp.
Blouse and trouser
pneumatic torso parts 
of dumb, fluttering beings
as if some grisly massacre
was on display.

But it's only
the toss and pitch of March winds
a swirling fusion of colour 
the flap-slap of textures
like Tibetan prayer flags
 - Please God, let me see another Spring. 

An ekphrastic poem from Marc Flatternde’s “Wäsche im Wind” (washing in the wind) for Merril’s Poetics prompt: March Wind