6 NOVEMBER 1993, Page 50

Mowing

No sound but the heated throb of a mower And nothing in my head but a tick of fear As cogged eyes clock the three long hours of lawn. But what this whirring locust can't devour Is mind, that keeps leaping up to woods where deer Emerge at dusk to browse in people's yards And leave among the clippings Lyme Disease Against which leaflets in the library warn.

The blade throws'mothwings, poppyseeds and shards That flash and could be Indian artefacts Except that I mustn't dream. Shadows in trees Might make a bullseye of me, or a slow Unnerving of my scalp, but not distract Me from the long straight lines I need to mow.

John Greening