Last night, after the new 'Star Trek' movie,
we beamed down to the nearest pub
and set conversation to nerd.
Today, still in the gravitational pull
of five pints of real ale, I boldly go
where no gardener has gone before.
Stardate last September: the hedge
terraforming rampantly since then.
It's foliage, Jim, but not as we know it.
Ladders, extension cable, trimmer.
Vulcan calm desiccates under
the incessant pulse of the sun
and I get all Romulan on the outgrowth
while my eyes plot a course
for next door's garden, a quadrant
of perfect symmetry, florally precise,
untainted by weeds or fallen leaves,
a Federation picnic area in waiting
and not even a sun-lounger
langorously occupied by an Uhura-a-like
in obligatory short skirt
to alleviate the boredom.
I watch the skies, alert for the first sign
of a meteor storm or a light shower,
any excuse to return to the bridge.
The trimmer screams, its motor
running hot under cheap plastic.
I'm giving it all it's got ...