Bracken

  

Bracken

 

From the mountain’s treelined slopes,

to an unmetalled road below,

his fenceline stretched in bracken robes

and he said to me, take this scythe,

hack it all back, cut a buffer strip

until concealed barbed wire is revealed,

prepare from the ground up for repair.

I felt it was a punishment,

for sexual encounters, drunken roaming

tripping light fantastics late home

from the village, four miles or more

and in the morning my head, sore,

 a dehydrated throat begging water, water.

I looked at the offered sickle

in disdain – he had other slaughter

at his disposal, chainsaws, poisons, killers

that could bust bunkers, let alone weeds

and could be put to lively use.

I shrugged, in spite, let loose

with the little something, spilling juice,

determined to prove the bastard wrong

and even while my head ached

put my back into it, for venom’s sake,

carving his bidden, bloody path.

Soon, in victory, all was revealed,

barbed wire, tempered steel

but I noted, as I beat down hot strokes,

the damage to his undergrowth,

holding in my sweaty palm

those flowers that did little harm.

Later, noting his fence never was fixed,

I saw new bracken reconquer it.