Graham Fowell


Hornet


The ghost of a million blades of grass
Haunt my Grandad's shed.
That's where he kept the piece of kit
That made them all so dead.
I think they try and frighten it
Or keep it up all night
So when he next time pulls the chord
It can't cut grass for shite.

Submitted: Monday, July 14, 2014
Edited: Monday, July 14, 2014

Topic of this poem: grandfather


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