First Cut

I trundled its petrol-perfumed rusty body out of the shed,

left the smells of must and cobwebs, rolled out onto the spring lawn.

The first cut of the year.

I took a deep breath, reached down, grasped the plastic handle, pulled.

At first there was the expected resistance of piston moving,

then, like a dream step, nothing.

Now it stands sentinel to a forgotten sward,

surrounded by a meadow of knee-high yellow buttercups

and purple cuckoo flowers.