Primeval

The lawnmower's savaging sheets
of yellow grass - digesting them,
and its dull whimper of petrol mixes
in the baths of the air
with oil of bergamot, lemon, seville orange
and wild purple thyme.
I show my teeth to my wife
as she gnaws slightly on the rim
of her bone china cup, lingers
at the edge like a swimmer
fearing the chill of the pool. Her teeth
are the chips on a roulette table
and I'm smiling at them - a wealthy customer
I am here making the lawn look
like a draughts board with the chudder of my
cut throat mower.
Her deckchair is old - the cup is chipped,
one of my slippers has a chewed edge,
but we have cupboards full of tea,
and the sun always pisses all over our lawn.

Life is summery and sweet enough to rot.