Gardening

Perspiration beads and cascades from the silvery crown roots down His neck, soaking side-burns burn and beard and pooling in cup of ears, running rivulets off sloped forehead and dripping from sponge brows, splashing lashes and searing sensitive pink lid-ends exposed where they meet denatured white-albumen of eyeballs.

Blinking blind.

The finger-tips tingle from engine vibrations transmitted through handles shaking flesh to gelatin numbness.

Jelly nerves.

The unconscious leaned-into postural slope and aching arch of muscles thick and heavy set against lift.

He kills the mower motor.

Power.

Stalled. The sonic hum still resonates round His skull like swarming swamp gnats. And now the uncomfortable adhesive cling of clothes to skin and viscous slick between sole and sandal squeaks in semi-frictionless slips.

Sun falling down.

Close to eve, He realises He can't keep this up; He needs to add “Ams” to continue the work.

Tender is the night.

Ghost.