Noah is looking out at his ordinary front yard at an ordinary road in a country town.
There is much work to be done. (But there will always be work to be done. Even at the end of the last task, there is still work to be done.)
There is a smooth lawn to be planted, a shed to be built, a clothes line, some trees, a sandpit and somewhere to leave his bike out in the rain.
There might be a pathway, a cubby house, somewhere for mud and water, somewhere to hide, somewhere for sorrow and somewhere for fury.
There might be a corner, designated for nothing, tangled and of no use, immensely valuable.
There will be a place to leave toys out to rust. He will help dig holes. He might hang washing with the hoist wound down, using 18 pegs for one small shirt.
When he is growing he might say with certainty: this place is shit.
When he is grown he will puzzle over and appeal to the curious things of worth.
And when he has a child of his own he will then begin with urgency, the ordinary lawn.
Blest, who can unconcernedly find
Hours, days, and years slide soft away,
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day,
Alexander Pope, Ode to Solitude