Idyl beside the Lower Tiber

This water-rhythm of the washerwomen

surpasses wind on wheat, the rococo ocean,

swallows' dipping, dolphins' caracole-swimming:

they work like blood in earth's systolic motion.

Bending by the brown river, up and down

with measured stichomythia of dawn

and twilight, how their backs and buttocks carve

the ultimate line beyond the sculptor's curve.

The round hard arms are brazen piston-rods,

a golden breast pops from a scarlet shirt,

a cool white knee slips past a dull green skirt,

the terra cotta faces flush sweaty-red.

They chatter and sing, assoiling the soil of life,

churning the soapy turquoise where the sky's blue

bubbles in water . . . in this task that love

does patiently because it will never be through.