Cutting Grass
Posted: Mon May 09, 2022 1:21 pm
He guides the monstrous insect down the middle
to cleave the task in two,
knowing its busy rumble will signal
to neighbours and sheep he’s at it again.
He knows, too, when grass
has been given too much rein.
Why change his process?
He lives by order and pattern,
forging toward the same corners,
overlapping lines, hoping
not to encounter a faint mohawk
as he whittles a sizeable patch to extinction.
The timid dips, a neighbourhood of moss –
he knows/negotiates them all,
jabs doggedly at the flowerbed’s edge,
tilts to the threat of a driveway kerb
until the rumble stutters, stops,
as if with a crumb stuck in its throat.
From the full-bellied bag,
in moist porridge of cuttings tumbles,
fruited pink with the cherry blossom
of flowers fallen, cut and stirred.
Three more pulls of the cord,
and he knows he’s caught it right.
This light machine has new life
– or he does, determined to end
on this last load before it sags.
When the job is done, silence,
a smell as if the earth itself
is grateful.