He hoards a rotation of them in a moated field.
Flymos, like grounded UFOs, line the verges.
Old Webbs and Greenworks are at grass.
Hares are his sentinels, guarding the perimeter.
He wears a duffle darkened with oil and mud
and a hat that plays Test Match Special on Long Wave.
For him, the grass is always greener. Each morning,
he pushes a LawnMaster down to the willow plantation,
its blade still gleaming. Only he knows where he tends
the perfect wicket, a runway of lawn where he bowls
googlies into the wind. At Whitsun, he hosts the
groundsmen of Warwickshire; the Somerset keepers.
They know their turf: when to spare the clover,
keep their clippings, and never mow in the rain.
