Leaning on a hoe

The sun, bleary-eyed as I
Barely peering above the horizontal,
Pours down its slow post-dawn light
On a muggy morning, August,
Dew rising, humid and still
The muffled commute underway

Eight men arrayed
In orange jackets and legs
Swap cigarettes and light up
The prelude to an attack
In slow motion on a
Weed-infested dockside kerb

I join the runners old and not so
Immunised against joint pain
With earbuds full of
Marley or Madness
Or, in my case,
Berry, the Black Country poet

The sun rises; the sweat falls
In great drops, my shirt
Monsoon damp, a testimony
To efforts that will not trouble
Or terrify
Any records known to man

The end, and I walk the perimeter
Of Cumberland Basin to cool
At the far end, under the Sun
The same eight in orange
Stand prodding at the enemy
With dedicated timidity

One, leaning on his hoe,
A hoe that mimics
The angle of lazy urination,
Fails to move, fearing defeat,
‘The weeds will win’ it’s
Beneath him to bend

The others shuffle, smoke, and scrape
Towards their first tea break
As I head home
To put the kettle on
And break sweat once again:
Pen in hand