The nicking grass

Autumn came too early,
Summer bruises purpled the shadows
those red bricks

walled and threatened, stuck trees
loosed ill-aimed conkers,
poxing the lawn.

It was too kept, the prickling lawn,
the nicking grass, cut
too close-

Snowdrop ankles hid themselves
in socks, watching
for the Heron

pale faced, finding
mirrors in the pond,
obscured by the mess

of abandoned leaves, drifting
and swollen, half sunk
like the ghosts of old boats,

when you stepped in
with your iron drum,
your fist of weight,

to heave and roll, heave
and roll, Gardener,
with your too clean hands.