You can tell he’s a bloke.
He’s got the right stroke
For cutting the hedge, like shaving
His chin – neat slices so trim.
Smooth-winged flights of shark-toothed blade,
Flash through the air.
Broken leaves and splintered twigs
Shower the golden-green autumn glade.
The sunset falls and grey clouds gather
Soon we must adapt to cold arctic weather.
The angel of the north
Will spread out his wings
To shower us with snow
And cut our warm skins.
Like the Angel of God.
To keep our souls trim