The neatness of a freshly cut lawn is as peaceful as a church
outdoors. The roof has gone missing. We throw up our hands as high as
clouds to sing: 'The world is blue and warm.' A job well done and the grass
is young and vulnerable. The wind across it from a long way off, is now
beside me with Tabby the cat. His head from behind is as broad as the yard.
I whisper: 'The sun moves across your chunky noggin,' until his ripped ear
flicked like a wing. His devilish tail darted as he watched the sun settle
the birds in the lawn. The wind plays along the edges like kids in sand,
throwing up grass clippings, thorns and burrs. The hose is about to strike
minerals with its water jet. We'll all be rich if we stick around long
enough. Butterflies follow clouds who follow the street kids home. They
were here so briefly and remain uncaptured. Their faces are flushed from
swearing, cardigans wrapped around hips and shoelaces muddy and worn to
frayed string. Across the street, the lawn smells strong after it has been
mown, stronger than clover or hay. Suburban nature strips that children
sink their thongs and time into, reek of the colour green. The sun bleaches
desire lines yellow and lime. The snails find death there and black beetles
turn over onto their backs and bicycle pedal times six. Why do they do
that? We find old toys, pieces of cutlery, coins and things that fall apart
like paper in our hands beneath the rugs of lawn. They provide the
archaeology of suburban lots. When the rain comes in from the south coast
of Sydney it is blustery and Victorian. You can smell the southerly busters
in the air, and it is the lawn you can smell outside your window. You can
smell it parched and then a huge gladness that lifts up out of it. This is
the smell of the lawn's preparation to receive rain. You share the
excitement and anticipation as negative ions stream down into the grass as
long as vines. Before droplets or hail they enter the earth like powerful
waterfalls pounding, or green cordial being poured by your mother's
forearms in the kitchen, or droplets of oil along straight threads that
surround the marble statues in the shopping plazas. They drop past
everything delicately, just before the storm batters it down, leaving
flower petals unbruised and the wings of insects untouched, as they scatter
in the wind seeking refuge. They are bugs on the edge of a wave of ice,
just like you at Maroubra beach when you couldn't swim. Your wide and
friendly eyes can follow those negative ions down, as if they are part of
your own vision. These are the things that children see, you've seen them,
haven't you? After the big storm has passed and the last drops are shining
in the sun from the roof, the lawn is drunk and soggy. It is water logged
and consumed by its own torpid stupor. You'll get no sense out of it for
the rest of the afternoon. There will be no conversation to speak of
between you and the lawn. Splashing in sticky clippings with bare wrinkled
feet, you are wet through to the bone. Temporarily drowned, you will catch
the cold your grandmother warned you about, sloshing the water up and
listening to it whistling. The cold comes in like a big wheeze, sliding
down the slippery dip of the low-pressure front into your chest. For a time
the lawn rolls over like a fat young pup, and lazes about drenched with its
tongue hanging out, your yellow gumboots as bright as your days. The world
is before you beyond the wrought iron gate, whilst you are on tour in your
own front yard.
