Hand Mowing Slavery
After years here in the city with the constant traffic flow,
and the daily grind all based on work to have the coffers grow
or keep the kids in school and provide for what is middle class,
there needs to be an outlet where there is open space and grass.
And being brought up in the country, it is often on my mind ,
with the smell of freshly cut mown hay something never left behind,
but once the daily pressure builds up and the mental anguish grows,
it’s time to have a family day a city dweller rarely knows;
Where there is not a tram in sight or a taxi to flag down;
trains every quarter hour, or bus stops everywhere around.
But there’s a host of parks and gardens that fail to get a pass,
for they rarely are dog friendly or we must keep off the grass.
So our kids get all excited when we travel out to Grandpa’s place,
that is a block out in the country, where there’s miles of open space,
and there’s mountains in the background with a range of pristine trees …
a magic place to be and joined by native birds and honey bees.
And Grandpa’s yard is a property where the kids can run and play,
for there’s two acres mowed as lawn and nothing growing in the way.
All the native shrubs and trees encase a set out garden settee,
where we sat down together; had lunch and a lovely cup of tea.
And Grandpa’s from the old school, not like our modern family;
‘Grandma do this; Grandma do that; or get this or that for me.’
That would never work in our home, ‘you get it your bloody self!’
We treat everyone as equals, and all perch upon one shelf.
But it was alone with Grandpa that had me really shake my head,
looking at his brand new ride on mower, that is parked in a shed,
“This gadget sure is beaut” he bragged. “In no time I mow the lawn,
where it used to take your Grandma, one whole day and all next morn.”
Copyright © Lindsay Laurie | Year Posted 2018
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