Tuesday, 11 September 2007

Larkin Assignment

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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