my garden of eighty feet

is meant to be so sweet

but instead it feels a foul:

an annual source of scowl.

 

those genetic green-ish thumbs

missed me this time round.

who cares about the lawn?

mowing is such a big yawn.

 

tempted to tarmac over

the clumps of turf and clover

so all that’s left is space

for me to contemplate

 

all that I would miss

from a greenery so big.

is it time to sort some turf:

grant my backyard a rebirth?

 

My response to Day 5 of NaPoWriMo 2016: meant to be a poem about a garden rarity. Turned into a rant about a garden monstrosity.