June’s final day.
Path behind houses, three men,
two on riding mowers, one wielding
strimmer, cutting banks, verges.
Machines swift-make uniform
open ground; impose order’s frontier,
contain nature’s domain,
demonstrate superior power.
Why were mowers
quick-working early morning?
Sun will bake surface,
all who inhabit this space,
while wise wild ones
retreat under wood’s eaves,
where coolness allows rest;
awaiting evening, day’s passing.
A few weeks hence, mowing
will happen again. Pretence
gladly carrying on,
we control every situation
even when clouds rise, darken
presaging storm; wind
rises, branch-rattling anticipation;
laborers escape indoors.
Rain sweeps down,
flashes illuminate, rumbles reverberate,
reveal climate’s innate majesty.
Her absolute authority
shows forth.
Dare we admit
limitation?
© Phil Kemp 2026
