out to grass

I was summoned from the cool and restful shade of my shed by the singing of a goldfinch from the top of the nearest apple tree. The rough grass under the trees was cut and the broad sward of the main lawn called, looking hot and exhausting.

Eight, or was it nine boxes of cuttings today. Every four lengths of the garden the mower ran too heavy and demanded lightening. Every four lengths of the lawn a walk to the compost heap and a moment of quiet to listen for the bird again, or to watch out for the passage of gatekeepers, solitary wasps, wild bees and, occasionally a ground beetle or a devils coachman.

The cutting equipment away, I've come inside to the cool of the house. Soaped and rinsed my hands, splashed my face. The kettle is on and, while I wait, I fill a mug with cold water and drink, looking out at my work. I catch the smell of the fennel by the compost on my arm and feel the prickle of sweat on my scalp.