Taken aback, and back <br />in annual awe, <br />I'm summoned where gardens, <br />like mortgages, <br />were middle aged, and middle class. <br /> <br />In pressed jeans pressed men wheeze <br />behind spluttering Suffolks <br />measuring time in vanishing verdure. <br />To and froing, to and froing <br />cursing grass <br />for ceaseless growing. <br /> <br />Year on year <br />the weary path <br />wears - to a black edged rut, <br />etched in fertile earth <br />and barren brain. <br /> <br />My borders are clipped. <br /> <br />Straight paths, I wander, <br />with narrowing margins. <br />And wonder, <br />was I so green? <br />Were things ever so clear <br />as the sure squeak <br />of thrusting grass <br />beneath cold feet?<br /><br />James Mills<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/growth-6/
