By Nick Byrne

Man must mow. His meadow is unkempt. Snakes may hide. He surveys his estate in discomfort.

Man must fuel his mower. An empty tin cannot excuse the rust on machinery accused of being nothing more than an expensive toy. It is fun to ride, but the earmuffs are for pussies. Sunglasses protect from most barbs, but goggles are for pussies.

The drive for fuel uses more fuel than that purchased, but man must mow. The shaking car on an ungraded and winding road. The gases expanding in the fuel tin. The need to protect. A glance in the rear-view mirror reveals the tin cradled in a child-safety seat. Something is wrong, but nothing is changed.

The dust on the long driveway momentarily clears. A pregnant woman carries a heavy load of costumes for rejected characters back to the shed, passing a fire. Dust. Clarity. A five-year-old child carries props, a convincing rifle from a distance, passing a fire.

The tin is in the grass and the cap releases a hiss and an odour. Most of the fuel finds the targeted tank, as the rest runs liberally over the cold engine bay, some dripping to the earth.

The silence is shattered, but the earmuffs are for pussies. The child’s mouth happily describes the repeated word, “Daddy”, running towards the beast, clutching the gun.

Unseen blades carve their path, as man discovers his own silence. The unintentional clash of blade and stone, and the choreography of his bobbing head beneath dangerous foliage. An escape.

Man must mow, and when man mows, he is invincible. His adequacy purchased top-of-the-line, not a toy. It is fun to ride, and avoiding heavy inclines is for pussies. The grass is wet and the wheels slide down a sharp slope. An angle. A thumping heart, passing a fire. The snakes escape from the noise. No animals are harmed and none protected.

He surveys his estate in relative comfort. The child brings a beer. The gases expand in the bottle and the cap releases a hiss. Most of the fuel finds the targeted tank, as the rest runs liberally, some dripping to the earth in harmony with the sweat.

A high-pitched tone remains in place of the engine noise, delaying a return to reality. A hinge is broken on the shed door. A pregnant woman carries firewood to the house.

What?! What?!?! He cannot answer. He cannot silence. And so he mows.

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