Nobody sees him shave his trails but in the evening they are there
turning our park woodland into a gallery of buzz cuts, long and short,
opening up our possibilities,
giving us choices we never knew we had.
A high taper with scalp exposure in front of the big Ash.
To the left, a clean shaven trail that cuts through fields of daisies,
and, to the right, a razed trail that weaves and curves through common vetch,
its clinging tendrils wrapped around its neighbours.
A mane with shaved sides circles the Beech,
enticing us past stinging nettles that skirt
a hedge of bramble, not yet ripe, and ribwort plantain,
its ovary capsules spilling seeds at our feet.
Or past a butch cut that slices through a clump of dandelion,
their jagged teeth, dents-de-lion, in various stages of growth,
some bright yellow heads threatening closure with the scent of rain,
and gossamer balls of seeds shedding themselves in our wake.
A stroke of his blade and a stubble path is shaven with precision
through tall grass sporting hogweed five feet tall.
A V junction creates a crown of creeping buttercups
drawing the eye to a newly planted Oak.
He’ll be back tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that.
Restyling and regrooming our park.
The man on the grass mower tractor
from
Copyright with Cathy Leonard 2017
Funny, I see the grass-cutting men as violent vikings on horses (ok, I don't think Vikings had horses), pillaging and raping their way through the beautiful meadows !!
ReplyDeleteWell,then, I expect a poem or a painting on that!
ReplyDelete