The Dark Corner

    Old Bellview House has stood in its estate 

For past a century, its unkempt lawn 

In recent years left to proliferate 

Far more than in its glory days long gone. 

In time, the next-door neighbours did object 

To letting nature take its wild course– 

They saw the plants’ great freedom as neglect 

And so resolved to tame the lawn by force. 

Armed with her garden gloves, intent to guard 

The values of the properties around, 

Airleas walked into Bellview House’s yard 

And started pulling weeds up from the ground. 

The neighbours heard a shriek and that was all. 

They found her dead, eyes wide, lain on her back, 

A shrub beneath her body broke the fall– 

The coroner dubbed it a heart attack. 

    Her husband, once the funeral was done, 

Decided to transform his tender grief, 

To finish what his late wife had begun 

And in the final product, find relief. 

He stared out through his window at the night, 

To where Airleas had drawn her final breath. 

He felt resentment building from this sight 

And certainty the plants had caused her death. 

Madness was coming over him, but sure, 

Insomnia and mourning shatter minds; 

Exhaustion and achievement could help cure 

And free him of his psychologic binds. 

He brought out his hedge trimmer from the shed– 

No time to waste, the moon would watch him work. 

Regarding that blameworthy grass ahead, 

His week-long frown tugged up into a smirk. 

    The other next-door neighbour of Bellview, 

Like those across the street and down the road, 

Was woken by a sound at half past two, 

Much like a chainsaw outside her abode. 

It startled her awake, and as Niamh feared 

To face the noise outside her windowpane, 

It changed, then just as quickly, disappeared, 

And so inside her bed she did remain. 

The neighbours found Airleas’ husband in 

The grass that, speckled red, shone in the dawn. 

He’d tripped and cut himself from crown to chin, 

And lay near where his wife had on the lawn. 

Niamh sat within her kitchen, staring out 

At Bellview House’s wild, fearsome yard. 

These accidents were strange, there was no doubt, 

And her own health she hoped she might safeguard. 

    Niamh waited til the second wake had passed 

To phone an old landscaper that she knew. 

His work was swift, his talent unsurpassed– 

She figured expertise would see this through. 

When he arrived, he gathered large debris 

That lay throughout the lawn’s uncertain bounds 

From trash to branches fallen off the tree, 

He carried out the waste from Bellview’s grounds. 

Next step was paring down the tall, thin grass 

So he could reach the verdure underneath. 

He filled his pull-start trimmer with new gas 

And freed the blades from their protective sheath. 

He placed his safety earmuffs on his head 

And started up the trimmer with a tug,  

Perhaps that’s why he did not hear or dread 

The falling tree limb crush him like a bug. 

    Old Bellview House has lingered since in peace, 

A favourite of all fungus, plant, and beast. 

Niamh, like the others, reined in her caprice 

Lest nosy neighbours end up there deceased. 

M.A. “Al” Waskow’s poem “The Explorer” was recently featured in Blueway Art Studio’s handprinted A Little Book of Brigid. Their poetry is largely personal, processing emotions distilling experiences into meter and rhyme. Outside of creative pursuits, they write poetry for computers (also known as coding), solve inconsequential puzzles, and work very hard at befriending stray cats in their area.