The Collector of Lawnmowers

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.