Cutting the Hedge

It's dry. It's hot.
The excuses dried up: it's time to cut the hedge.

Clippers, two pairs, dragged from their slumbers. Cobwebs coming for free.
One pair, man down: the swordfish slack: un-fixable by the amateur, too good to give away, back to bed it goes.

Number 2 is a go, WD40 to loosen, to slacken - the illusion of professionalism (not delayism).

1130am: too late for lie ins and complaining neighbours, too early for lunch.
Passers by, onlookers, pram pushers, catching their eye to liquidate a break.

Time measured in feet, inches and trips to the bin.
A count of eight, signifies dins.

When nearing the finish, the chore is less of a bore, something to show passing walkers galore.

But nobody comes. The sparrows laugh.
Totalling the bin trips requires extra math.
But the view from the landing window: priceless.

Another three months before the hedgerow haircut rises back to the top of the to do's.
and by then, the glow of straight-lines will be not new.