Poem of the Month: July 2010

An ‘epithalamium’ or wedding song for Amanda and Chris

The Mower


Mown-path-cropped
What is he thinking, the old man who mows,
Cutting a swathe through the hot afternoon,
Beheading the buttercups as he goes,
A brief storm of gold, that’s over too soon?
He is tuning his words to make you a song
To sing through the cough of the mower’s blade,
His message is simple, meaning is long,
Blessing this day when promises are made.
His task is a hard one, he wishes it done,
So on he toils in the last of the light,
To flame in the eye of the setting sun,
And then fall as dew in the shiv’ry night.
He’s left these green spaces clear for you now,
Rest here a short while, and let your love grow.


© James Nash 2010