It fucks things up, a hedge that’s wide
You may not think so, but it does.
Blades don’t reach the other side;
Ruche green turns to privet fuzz.
Man hands kneeling mat to man,
The click of bowls behind,
The gardener shins up sun-baked walls
Decimation on her mind.
Hedges stride like tenements
Across our common earth,
And we conspire at gardens’ end
To give them slimmer berth.
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