A Day's Work

After weeks of rain, I heave and shove the mower
through the heavy grass, and hunkering gouge
the damp green gobbets from its moving parts.
I clear a circle round the birch, and plunge
my hands into a fine composted bark
and lay and smooth it round the stem.
I hoe some weeds and let them dry in the sun.

My neighbour has a clock that chimes
on every hour, but doesn't count the hours.
This is play-labour, neither waged nor feudal.
And you might come and look, and I might point
to where the mown grass seems to smoulder
among the wavering shadows of the tree,
and then it would be yours as well as mine.

Careful to save the soil, I rake the weeds
and mound and shovel, bag and barrow.
Remembering a wound the chafing wind
has gouged in an alder-stem against its stake,
I unfetter the good tree, and clean the stem,
and dress it with healing stuff, to make it safe.