Wednesday, 15 July 2015

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.

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