The Stylist
Nobody sees him shave his trails.
But in the evening they are there
Turning our park woodland
into a gallery of buzz cuts.
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:
He loves me /he loves me not:
Torn florets strewn over our
shoulders.
An accessory daisy chain, our teeth
cutting through bitter stalks
tasting of sap so vile not even the wild
will touch it.
Or to the right, razed trails that
weave and curve
through common vetch, its clinging
tendrils wrapped
around its neighbour.
A mane with shaved sides circles the
Beech, enticing us past
stinging nettles that skirt a hedge
of bramble, not yet ripe.
The ribwort plantain, its ovary
capsules spill seeds at our feet.
Or a butch cut that slices through clumps 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 shorn
with precision
through tall grass sporting hogweed five
feet tall.
A V junction creates a crown of
creeping
Buttercups,
Draws 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 Dunlaoghaire-Rathdown
County Council.
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