Greener Still

The lawn looks green
 from a distance,
going near I find
 it to be in tufts,
 similar to an head 
with knots of hair 
 unevenly grown.

Even closer, they 
appear to be in streaks,
long, thin and thorny
akin to an head
on the verge of turning 

There is no grass whatsoever
just prickly plants that pierce
through the soles of the  shoes
hurt  the feet  with a spasm.
Withdrawing as quick as possible 
 I turn back limping.

Krishna, my gardener, rushes in.
Cuts the thorns  and weeds.
He avoids  my eyes.  I keep mum.
 Controlling my indignation,
 I talk to myself in a subdued tone,
“Krishna is growing old, forgive him”.