In the early rosy morn,

His sun shone,

Bright light beams.

And so she awoke,

Eager to mow lush,

That overgrown lawn.

Blades invaded with ubiquitous Papaver,

Infested with spidery Nigella,

Untouched for many a day.

But time was plenty,

Twas the end of the working week.

So, slowly she arose.

Until those dreaded nimbi crept closer.

Hurry! Hurry!

The sky greys with rain,

Time runs out.

Hear the roar of the grass killer,

The axing of the weeds,

Silent screams of little flowers,

Who only want to grow.

Must we rush?

Must we kill those innocent seedlings

Who only want to grow?

Yes – only,

To sow yet more seeds,

To plant yet another David Austen,

Oh and that mustard fluffball tree from the Italian Deli.

And so did the clouds reach,

Her garden overhead,

To pour their blessings,

Over those that she prays will grow,

And over that she wishes wouldn't.

Yet, no matter her efforts,

What grows is His to decide,

As the sun is His to shine,

And the clouds His to rain.

And no matter our efforts,

Our fate is His alone to decide,

As we strive to reach His heights.

So we pray He cares for us just a little more,

Than we care for our dunyafied lawns.