Doing Jobs For Uncle. Poem by Terry Collett

His uncle Mick asked Benedict
if he would mow the lawn
of the old lady at the cottage,
which he did, then clean out
the cowsheds at the farm,
which he did, then take some eggs
to the local shop, which he did.

It was a hot day, he felt a thirst
so went to pub called the Battleaxe
and ordered a pint and sat and drank
it slow outside in the sun. He thought
of the clarinet he'd brought with him,
the jazz he played in the front lounge,
which his aunt Eileen said was very good.

Do you still have and play your accordion?
he asked her. No, she said not now;
I've not played for years. He remembered
her playing and singing Goodnight Irene
on it when he had stayed as a kid.

Long ago now, he thought, finishing his pint.
He also mused on his recent visited
to see the MJQ in the City and afterwards
he met the band on the coach at the back.
Asked questions, got autographs.

Then another visit to the City with his
two cousins to watch them do their martial arts
and afterwards showed them judo moves
he and his friends had done a few years before.

He took his empty glass to the counter
of the pub and walked out in the sunshine
wondering what his uncle Mick would have
lined up for him next. There was talk of
digging trenches in the churchyard some
evening to lay pipes to the church and there
was that mowing of the grass he'd been
shown the other day. Yes, he'd do that now,
he thought, while the sun was out, the grass dry.

The mower was in a shed at the back, one
of those modern jobs, less work, less elbow grease,
less sweat. But also, those peas to pick
and shuck for his aunt. He wasn't done with his
chores for his keep, for six weeks, least not yet.