Rushes of grass, rushes of time,
a right palaver; so wrong; sublime,
where sweat drops down, to water plant,
as “Monty Don” begins to pant,
though secateurs; wielded so,
cannot stop that ancient grow,
for Pampas Grass, is on parade,
to cut those hands, in Sun and shade,
bin bags fill, as green recovers,
talking monkey, fears; it’s shudders,
then the wind; aids the bush,
waving strong, this plotting brush,
months went by; observant slave,
it taught the human to behave,
for thunderstorm, was mere feather,
as little man, wore thickened leather,
it sang its song, silent bloom,
most revered; in outside room,
even Pines, gave their bows,
when loud-proud person; hung out towels,
but at clothesline, spear leaves spoke,
“I’m still here, you silly bloke!
Feel every cut, you lot have made,
I’m Pampas Grass, I’m Garden-Blade!”