Garden-Blade

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!”