Taken aback, and back
in annual awe,
I'm summoned where gardens,
like mortgages,
were middle aged, and middle class.

In pressed jeans pressed men wheeze
behind spluttering Suffolks
measuring time in vanishing verdure.
To and froing, to and froing
cursing grass
for ceaseless growing.

Year on year
the weary path
wears - to a black edged rut,
etched in fertile earth
and barren brain.

My borders are clipped.

Straight paths, I wander,
with narrowing margins.
And wonder,
was I so green?
Were things ever so clear
as the sure squeak
of thrusting grass
beneath cold feet?

by James Mills

Comments (0)

There is no comment submitted by members.