Hung Out Like Washing Poem by john (called jack) wren

Where I could wander footloose and free
I now draw strength from my memory
some places and events stick in my mind
of people and happenings of every kind.

Like wandering down a country lane
in summer's warmth or winter's rain
and watching farmers as they plough
with aching back and sweating brow.

Observing countrymen masters at work
on misty fields where busy moles lurk
laying traps with a hope and desire
to display their foe on drawn out wire.

This catcher's had a fruitful time
eighteen little ones, so sublime
hung out like washing, for all to see
to advertise, his pedigree.