Mowing Poem by Gert Strydom
Mowing
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.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/17/2024 12:15:11 PM # 1.0.0.1119
A nicely written and well turned poem. The last line was like a prize at the bottom of a cereal box. Very nice.