JOHN, MOWING

Down the tufty lawn-slope, John strides,

Denim-legged and booted, shirt shed,

Steers the champing motor with slim wrist,

Spreads a clipped strip where his heel strikes.

By the walk he twirls his tool, with a dance step,

Turns to climb, without pause, in march time.

The cyclone cellar swells by the pump, like a green boil.

Three strides up, and a yank, and it's John's fort.

Leaps astride the stone door, lays about,

The feigned foe leveled by the lone scout.

Rides it down and swings south for more deeds,

Steed alert for what lurks in slain weeds.

Through the motor's clatter whistles John's

tune.

From my porch I watch him finish, too soon.

Pierre Foreau

11