GRASS CUTTER INVASION

Hiding from Invasion

Motor bikes roar to the gate,
men in green, Myanmar men,
arrive masked and ready
carrying machinery heavy and
light: weed-eaters, brooms, rakes.
Grass cutters to mow the lawn. Noisily
dinning the quiet neighbourhood
spreading grass scent raw, warm.

Sunday peace torn apart.
Mr. Spooks will have none of it.
Gone the observation deck
atop parked motor car.
Sun-snooze on best chair.
Gone.
Stretch on the damp grass.
Gone.
Roll in mud.
Gone.

In Hiding

He seeks solace indoors.
He shuffles himself against papers,
keyboard and books on table.

Studying me his muted gaze says,
‘Don’t look, this is not me,
I am not here.’