To Wildflowers

To wildflowers
by john clare

Six after three and it is past time to cut the grass
as I have done for these eighty and four long years
with this high wheel mower I think will outlast
me as this yard yearns to return to weeds I fear.

The pull cord of cotton has seized and the gas
is stale, my strength is not as it used to be
but I must not let the weeds take over the grass
and obscure the path mother walked with me.

In this afternoon shade just let me sit awhile
as I ponder the problem and how I can coax
this Briggs, perhaps the plugs are fouled
as the weeds grow and the grass slowly chokes.

There must be a pump in the shed let
me find it and inflate these twenty and six
inch tires dry rotting but first let me sit
and just enjoy the wild flowers by the steps.

It is after three thirty and as I sit here
beside this pathway, I think I shall just
let this old mower rest after these long years
with its dulled blade and muffler of rust.

Mother will not mind as I think of her
and how she loved the wild flowers in
the path. She always told me be sure
my son, please don't mow over them.