Cornish Sonnet I

It's boxing day, and I'm holding the ladder
while he trims the hedge - well, the neighbours' hedge
really. Hedge-shrapnel falls on me like powder
snow, like a hedge-pungent pre-avalanche,
and goes down my neck, down my spine's coggish ridge
so I itch my neck, standing taut as a winch.
I keep my head down to keep my eyes hedge-
fragment clean, so no dash to the taps
intervals his lunging. Far better to dodge
the hedge-debris blind, wait for the command
to take the hedge-trimmer when he stops and steps
down, head aimed at the hedge-strewn ground.
So I itch my neck, standing taut as a winch,
down, head aimed at the hedge-strewn ground.