The December Grass

Under contract, he mows the pristine 

estate edgings unknowingly,

him in the day glo, hood up, head down.

No seasonal ho-ho-ho about him

(and who can blame him?)

It rains; the sky is slate,

hating everything beneath it.

The grass (if it is real)

has not grown since November,

when he last grudgingly appeared.

I look forward to snow, to see him,

under contract ('it says so right here')

going to and fro, indelicately,

not knowing the difference

between green and white.

How British! How right!

And that will be a sight to see.