A Poem by David Wheatley

Song of the Strimmer

For Death thou art a mower too.

For the chop alike all grass all hope
of spring come round without the dope
who at the season’s first faint glimmer
reaches for his roaring strimmer
as I notice with something of the shock
of a house martin concussed by a newly-
installed nest blocker my near neighbour
operating I should think barely within
the stated limit of 96 decibels under
the Noise Emissions in the Environment
regulations of 2001 and what is more
doing so well after 8pm
committed inexorably to
victory over the dandelions
defacing his verge though when I follow
the arc of a miscreant chaffinch
I see the next garden along has been
relaid with astroturf and gravel thus
moving us to the next level again
where real blades slice imaginary
dandelions in search of the anaerobic
Arcadia of habitat- and
pollinator-loss the ritual
form continuing after the function
falls away and where come high summer
strimmer to strimmer calls across
the fences drowning the cries
of the final mower for whom the scythe
remains a lyre and not the sound
of Death FM piped through the garden
centre where Damon has sold Clorinda
on the latest model for her wee
bit of lawn with have you thought of
getting rid just stripping it all out.

David Wheatley’s latest collection is Child Ballad (Carcanet). He is also the translator of Aifric Mac Aodha’s Old Friends (Gallery Press).