The lawnmower

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.