The Groundsman’s Agenda
I’m not a Friend, but a friend of Friends;
Not even a gardener- just a groundsman
Simply tasked.
Keep lush lawns prim;
Winkle weeds from the path;
Garner from gutters wet wedges of weeds;
Heap them for keeping till composted
crumbly rich
And dark as a wedding cake mix.
All items agreed, I’ll work to punctilious
rote,
But like the weeds, keep my own
subversive agenda.
Those small lozenges of lichen scabbed
stone
Laid flat beneath the boundary wall,
Veiled beneath louche grass,
That somehow neither weed nor lawn
Ignores the mower’s blade,
Will be revealed to tell their tale.
Scissor the tough grass back;
Lop encroaching boughs from the other
side
That shatter the sunlight with shade to
obscure;
Scrub the moss mask from the stone
To bare blurred names that somebody
bore,
Breathed living air and passed this way.
After all, a name’s not fame,
It’s just a way to recognise a stone.
Dave Morris, Stourbridge
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