Blade
A vacuum between school and college.
Mournful of a lack of cash, I negotiated
A chore. To stagger a scythe amongst
Forestial grass, The iron ripping
Vegetation. I was a pioneer.
The birds saw a dyspraxic wielding a
Rusty weapon liberated from the
Musty shed. I confronted the mission
In succinct bursts, the limits of my
Attention span. Powered by tea.
First, in imagined segments, I hewed the
Stalks and grass midway. I raked the unwanted
To a ‘barrow then delivered to the
Compost mountain. Bent low, I hacked to an
Inch or two above the arid earth.
After tidying, I mowed the grass to
A common height. Now I could see proud soldiers
Ready for battle against the singeing
Afternoon. Later, I received pound notes.
Paul Attwell lives in Richmond, London, with his partner Alis and cats, Pudsey and Tequila. He holds a BA in Humanities with Creative Writing, from the Open University. Paul’s experiences of depression and ADHD help shape his work.