Strimming the Herbaceous Border.

I squeeze the handle and exert a force

With my right thumb which sets the whizzing wire

Upon its spinning, spitting at high speed,

As instantly destructive as is fire.

The dying alkanet is smashed, a weed

Again, not wanted now the blue

Of it's spring flowers is just a passing thought,

A recollection brought about by sky,

Cerulean, azure, that weedy hue

Belonging to Boriginacea.

The wild garlic's yellow leather falls

And fills the air with vile, pungent smells.

The earth beneath is once again exposed,

And crumbles, breaks, is ready for the seed

Of Queen Anne's lace, whose tough, dry stalks

Are chewed, but still stay standing, as I try

To buzz them, break them. Then I smash the balls

Of rotten peony heads, reduced by rain

From pale and  frilly, pink, potential flowers,

To useless, dead reminders, medium brown,

Of all that nature hoped for when in May

She made things fresh and new after the grey.