Pyro Man

Pyro Man

Closet pyromaniac
Flustering with garden sack
Stuffing in his raked-up leaves
Uprooted veins of strangling weeds
 
Whirring blurring  ‘lectric toy
Wielded by the gardening boy
Castrates a hedge and murders trees
Slice though mortals with scimitar ease
 
His eyes aglimmer with delight
He strikes a match and sets alight
That funeral pyre of garden waste
Now he’s the tsar of floral grace
 
Smoke clouds billow to the sky
He adds some branches, wonders why
Those brittle twigs are not her bones
The hiss-spit-crackle not her moans
 
Creates a pond on Sunday noon
Shovel-spade huff-puff, be done soon
Panting, perspiring husband brave
Has dug a hole deep as a grave
 
Weekend Man, Mr DIY
Designs and plots how she’s to die
Recycle her in the compost heap
His eyes won’t cry but rain could weep
 
Build her into the garden wall
Brick by brick till she’s nothing at all
Cremate her in the hollybush fire
Acrid smoke would shield the pyre
 
Her ashes ready in the Spring
Scatter, fritter, litter, fling
On flowerbeds, organic matter
Plants grow taller, lusher, fatter
 
Friends and neighbours, family
Will shake their heads and sigh as he
The brave old soul, just soldiers on
With showcase garden now she’s gone
 
His bald pate feels the drips of drizzle
The fire abates and starts to fizzle
Wife at the door declares with glee
Darling! Time for a nice cup of tea

© Copyright 2006 Rebecca Latyntseva

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