Strim strim strimy I strim and I strim

There was a lesser known Woody Guthrie song about swimming. Swim, swim, swimy I swim and I swim etc.

Most of the internal policies are strummed now. Battered back to where they were last winter.

The sweet smell of hay and mint wistful in the hardly moving air. The suckering false acacia dealt a less than mortal blow by secateurs.

I have mastered my temper over the broken line.

Understood how to thread the spool back without losing it. Cut the engine, mop the sweat, take off earphones and guard, drop the harness, tip the machine on its back, lever of the spool guard, extract the spool, take out new line, cinch the two ends of line, feed back through the eyelets, break the cinch and wind back to just below the guard cutter. Sweat mop again. Mask and earphones on.

Sop rag tucked into the reshouldered harness. Screwdriver and secateurs in side trouser pocket. Flick the cutoff on. Pull the cord. Click the 7kg machine to the harness.

And away you go. No wasted energy. No railing at mechanical injustice.

Pull the guard mesh down tight. Cut with sweeping strokes from right to left, like a scythe, even though I’m a lefty.

Take care on woody growth. Soft hands and feed the cord into it slowly: thistles, acacia, the bigger brambles, the tough wild chicory, the sprawling field maple, the spindle saplings, the mullen.

Keep back from the terrace walls. Cut the top out until the bottom is visible.

Still the 3mm cord breaks but less often and I am more in tune, prepared.

Zen and the art of terraced strimming. A lesson long learnt. And easily forgotten.

Unbidden the sweetcorn blooms. Wishes for wind to carry it’s not quite ready pollen through and to its neighbours on the block.

And still no rain.

The Woody song is here https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6BI1kyf9v-0

And a lovely London Wainwright song about summer swimming here https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g8ozrH3HBwE I heard him sing it at the Cambridge Folk Festival so many years ago. I’m not sure if memory serves, but he was dragging a full crate of beer around with him after the gig. My wayward friends were off their tiny heads on Benilyn. It was a long time ago,