The Lawn Ranger

The Lawn Ranger

I know how everyone looks forward to Summer,

The sun rising in the early day’s dawn,

But they’re probably not gardeners like me,

Locked in a life-or-death struggle… with a lawn.

 

Visitors come round and admire the garden,

How well it’s looking, all lush and so green,

But they’ve no idea what goes into it,

The behind-the-scenes battle unseen.

 

It starts off quite gentle in the Spring,

With a light cut, just to show it who’s boss,

But this just encourages fresh growth,

Of dandelions, and daisies, and moss.

 

So then there’s a bit of raking and forking,

With a bit of added fertiliser and filler,

Some judicious tactical weeding,

And the application of some weed-killer.

 

But then the days lengthen and grow warm,

And the greenery just puts on a spurt,

So I have to cut it harder and more often,

And the effort involved starts to hurt.

 

I get out my mowers in the morning,

And carefully mow for most of a day,

And when it’s finished it looks really lovely,

As pretty as a picture I’d say.

 

That lasts for twenty-four hours at most,

A couple of days if I’m really lucky,

But then it starts bloody growing again,

And I’ve to go out and get mucky.

 

Each time I do a brilliant job,

With my sit-own mower across the expanse,

A carefully-tended large acreage,

That leads me a merry dance.

 

Soon it’s the same day after day,

At my puny effort the garden mocks:

The endless trips to the compost-heap,

As the cuttings pile up in the box.

 

But I come inside and admire my efforts,

Regard the beautiful stripes of the sward:

It looks near enough like a billiard-table,

Good enough to deserve an award! 

 

But a day or two later and all is undone!

It’s as if I’d never cut it – a real mess -

A complete waste of nugatory effort,

So I get to swearing a lot I confess.

 

And so it goes on all of the Summer:

I cut it and mow it, and tend it, and then,

Just when I think I’ve beaten the bugger,

It grows and needs doing all over again!

 

There’s the odd day when I can’t mow,

And that’s when it’s pouring with rain,

But the moisture’s just what the lawn needs,

So all my effort goes down the drain.

 

I think it’s a form of gardener’s punishment -

There’s no glory in which I can bask.

It’s eating away at my very soul,

It’s a never-ending thankless task.

 

There’s only one thing to look forward to,

That’s when Winter at last comes to pass,

I can put the mowers away and relax,

But I still have nightmares… about grass!

 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2021