Gert Strydom

Gold Star - 16,916 Points (03 April 1964 / Johannesburg, South Africa)

Mowing - Poem by Gert Strydom

There was not a sound
but that of the machine
that howl against the sky
and magically sheared the grass
from where it grew.

No bushes of grass, or even weeds
could keep its length
when that yellow long necked
Weedeater appeared.

Grass, weeds and stems
were scattered everywhere
and underneath, with the smell
of mown grass in the air
a beautiful lawn appeared.


Comments about Mowing by Gert Strydom

  • (12/7/2009 12:26:00 AM)


    A nicely written and well turned poem. The last line was like a prize at the bottom of a cereal box. Very nice. (Report) Reply

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Poem Submitted: Monday, December 7, 2009



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