‌Feed and Weed

I was vainly mowing stripes with the Suffolk Colt The lawn was dusty and tired

More weeds than grass

‘Not looking its Sunday best’

St Martin’s 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

Its alarm set to two but running slow Tick tock.

It showed ten to two or one-fifty Thus, a significant disparity With St Martin’s earnest prompt A full ten minutes out of kilter

I stopped the Colt’s engine. Chug chug.

I raised the Westclox 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

Its summons to rival St Martin’s. 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.

October 23, 2024