I have never worked
on grass so sharp
that it cuts into my feet like glass.
under a sun so hot
that the soles of my trainers melted
welding me to the ground
hanging in a sky so empty
so spotlessly bare that I can see solar systems
wood pigeons are still,
smooth, wooden statues,
bead eyes glimmer –
they teach the worms to fly
and die.
I have never worked
among dropping silver pinecones
where tomatoes swell and blush as I watch
and abrupt gales bring trees, chimneys crashing to my feet
or in a place where my watch
ticks like a dripping tap
and my clothes stick to me skin-tight
for fear of the air
where trees reposition and starlings fly from my nostrils
when I cough or sneeze
and my ears try to meet
at the back of my head.
But someone’s got to do it.