Bracken

  

Bracken

 

From the mountain’s treelined slopes,

to an unmetalled road below,

his fence-line hung in bracken robes

and he said to me, take this scythe,

hack it all back, cut a buffer zone

until the choked barbed wire is revealed,

prepare it from the ground up for repair.

I felt it was a baleful punishment

for sexual encounters, drunken roaming

tripping light fantastics late home

from the village pub, four miles or more

and in the morning my head, sore,

a dehydrated throat begging water, water.

I looked at his 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 that 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.