Pockets of clovers riddle this lawn
like bullet holes in a church wall
once we were gibbons
picking at fleas
but we are sure now
that the leaves grow in threes

It’s been a long time
since I let the petals of a daisy
dictate my feelings;
but I can’t deny
that the buttercup’s word
still holds true

Behind this lawn
the house ticks over,
it creaks and groans
as if to clear its throat
of candle wax
the old boiler, hidden,
is its brass heart
that poor giant copper working thing
will never see outside