The art of lawn mowing

There’s a can of two-stroke

in the plywood cupboard

at the back of Dad’s shed.

I shake the contents,

and judge that it’s enough for today

if I move quickly before the rain.

I fill the mower,

replace the cap,

set the throttle

and pull the cord.

The mower splutters to life

and I give it enough revs

to wake the dwarves on Mr Crewe’s fence.

When I was ten

Dad taught me

the art of lawn mowing.

He called it ‘Zen on Saturday’.

‘Start from the fence,

move forward and back

and keep your feet clear when turning,’ he’d say.

I remove the grass-catcher

because I want to walk through the clippings

kicking them as I go

to remember how I felt as a child

picking up piles and throwing them at Mum

who’d brought lemonade to the back step.

Mum would chase me around the yard

vowing to stuff grass down my shirt.

I’d escape her clutches,

so she’d turn and run towards Dad,

throwing herself into his arms.

They’d roll around together in the grass, laughing,

and I’d watch and wonder

how long before they realised I was there.

It seemed like forever.

Mr Crewe waves at me

and yells something over the fence.

I bet he’s suggesting I mow his lawn

when I’ve finished ours.

And I just might

because it’s never too late

to be ten years old again.