I was vainly mowing stripes with the Suffolk Colt
The lawn was dusty and tired
More weeds than grass
‘Not looking it’s Sunday best’
St Martins clock announced the hour
Dong dong.
Causing me to pause and check my wristwatch
Such that in the lawn below I saw
Just deep enough to avoid the blades
A clock buried smiling to the sky
It’s alarm set to two but running slow
Tick tock.
It showed ten to two or one fifty
Thus, a significant disparity
With St Martins earnest prompt
A full ten minutes out of kilter
I stopped the colt’s engine.
Chug chug.
I raised the Wesclox from the ground
I recognised the brand
I set it proud on the bird table
Next to the peanut feeder
Displacing a tit
Tweet tweet.
From whence it’s alarm could sound
Certain to be heard
Up and down the road
It’s summons to rival St Martins.
I waited my thumbs drumming
Dum dum
The requisite ten minutes
Counting down like this
10 minutes to go. 9 minutes to go – bis.
A click and a clang then
It rang and rang and Raaaaaaaaaaaaang
And wow.
My grass sprung up ‘racing green’
Fast like an e-type or Robin H’s arrow
Feed and weed did it indeed
But late.