The grass cutter

Not a day passes
without him turning up
somewhere.
Today, he’s down there
down there with his bag
that follows him,
framed in red.
The single metaphor
of a dead generation.
When you see him
just sitting there
held together by memories
of tall grass, winding though trees.
He is always ready.
He will go anywhere if you ask him.
All he does
is what’s in front of him.