The booming grating sound of a lawn mower
At the service of a quiet garden
Inferno of sound
Grooming the grass offering solace to
The overworked,
The overstretched
The over everything
How is it
That a lawn so pretty
Be created by such contortion of sound
Twanging nerves in abundance.
Perhaps there
Up there somewhere
Is the chief of all accountants
His job not to balance currency
But to balance pain and pleasure.
The mirror is scutinised to show the pleasant, but not only
It must also show the ugly
Days are scurinised to hold joy but not only
They must hold sadness too
Perhaps life itself is measured out in doses of sweet and bitter,
All balancing out in true equality.