my garden of eighty feet
is meant to be so sweet
but instead it feels a foul:
an annual source of scowl.
those genetic green-ish thumbs
missed me this time round.
who cares about the lawn?
mowing is such a big yawn.
tempted to tarmac over
the clumps of turf and clover
so all that’s left is space
for me to contemplate
all that I would miss
from a greenery so big.
is it time to sort some turf:
grant my backyard a rebirth?
My response to Day 5 of NaPoWriMo 2016: meant to be a poem about a garden rarity. Turned into a rant about a garden monstrosity.
