The shirtless young
man pushes (blue tint,

brown) a hand back
over his beard:

and with the other,
steers a lawnmower

over the strip,
stones sputtering.

I film his stride
thighwards, in sun

on broad shoulder-muscle
linked to the handle:

his pale jeans
dinted by light.

His shout’s roundness
is as shiny as

a car top which
repeats his eye

and bareburnt
surface — his

elbow thrust
skims at grass.

There, shadow is
his white’s humour:

his sportshoes measure
the lawn’s growth.

Getting lost in
an uncut patch as

later (now carrying a
filled hutch) he

enters the gully,
snaps off withes

of still pink-laden
springy oleanders

with an upswing
throw that goes

outwards in a
pelt of pebbles,

ruck of clippings.
That green cloud is

thrown into the branches
like rain dripping —

next, his hand returns
so that he may

steady his heel’s
glinting catch.