NaPM 12 April 2022

[Semicircle]

Essence of Reaper


A smell, a sense of new-mown hay
fresh, fragrant with a mossy dampness
which one feels will shortly turn
to rankness but has yet to lose
its air of growing green, of silage–
fodder for a rising dream.

But silos are not merely places
for sweet fancies but for holding
hydrazine and other compounds
known to soldiers as nerve gas
which smell of new-mown hay, it’s said–
just before they knock you dead.

This poem is very effective,
it drew me into the nostalgic smell 
of grass clippings.
It Reminded me of green feet
at the end of mowing a lawn,
and turned it into
stink death.

YOU MONSTER!!

good work,
Sc.