I’ll pull the weeds and they’ll be there again
tomorrow, grinning a shit-eating grin
and fucking up the borders of the lawn
like car yards on the Parramatta road.
They’ll be there, ugly and intransigent,
cross-armed with poison sap and thorny hooks
like officers with nothing more to do
than handicap proposals with concerns.
The weeds will always argue, quite at home
in witless sand, or liquid shit, unfazed
by chaos, thriving on neglect, intent
on stifling flowers in the bud.
Beware: there is no victory, no happy garden.
No restful bower. No end to weeding.
©2018 Craig Bingham