The out of control brush.
Thick weeds so high and formidible.
The gorse and thistle and wild berry thorn.
The crabbed groundsman must slash it all out,
this ensures the animal inside him is let loose.
The stubborn arms swing the sythe smoothly through the brush and weeds.
But with an ache a sore petulance behind his force.
His doleful hours...
His hot day...
In his hands his dull blade.
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