The Start

Here I stand at the start of a
very long and rocky road to
freedom, alone, unknown and
untried.
Scared that what I have started
I will never be able to finish
He chose to cheat, I chose to let
him go
Would it have not been easier to forgive and
forget
To hope that every time he left the house
He headed to someplace he should
I feel deep in my heart that he was lost to me
long before the day I discovered a receipt for a dinner
I did not eat, and diamonds I do not wear
bought by a man I no longer know
So, as the starting pistol fires
I am off, running, searching, turning back,
looking forward
seeking the fork in the road that will take
me to a place I deserve to be
to once again smile, breathe and feel like me.

The Butcher

We have a man in our life
who's awfully handy with a knife
He cuts, bones and fillets with such skill
he never stands for a minute still.



He wears his boater with such pride
he is testosterone personified
He listens, teases and spins a yarn
but he never ever means any harm.



He is the hardest worker that I know
that is why we all love him so.
So if your poison it be meat
he's the man that's hard to beat.

"If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride"

If only she had listened
but when you are only three what do you hear
an ice-cream van playing a little jingle
someone's radio playing very near
She wished she hadn't turned over
to feel the deep heat of sun on my back
Daisy promised she would stay at the edge
and collect cockle shells in her tiny net sack
How could she have fallen asleep
amidst Ambre Solaire and the heat
with Richard and Judy's pick of the week
and sand and shingle at her feet
The men said she wouldn't have suffered
It was a very very huge wave
Not to try and blame herself
She would have to be strong and incredibly brave
No one seemed to see it happen
The cruel sea snapped her up in a flash
All anyone remembers is a pretty
little girl in a spotty sundress.
The waves continue to tumble
sand and shingle continues to crash
We can wish all that we want to
but alas she will not be the last.

Do you see what I see?

Do you ever wonder
if you see the colours that I see
Do you perceive greens, browns and yellows
exactly the same as me?

Can you hear the sounds I hear
Are they faint, low and afar
Or high, loud and screechy
I wonder how they are?

Does your nose sniff up
The same scents that I smell
Does a rose seem heady and fragrant
Or is that your idea of hell?

Are your fingers feeling
The fine laughter lines on a face
Or do you think they feel like
an old worn leather suitcase?

Some moist mouths love the taste
of Marmite on the tongue
Others think they might as well
be chewing old cow dung!

The Journey

Arise, shower, breakfast by eight
Snap door locks and shut the gate
"I know, I know, I'm running late"
"Oh hurry up for goodness sake!"

Car loaded, all squeezed in
Water, food, alas no gin
Lashing rain its all such a pain
CDs and music to keep us sane

Grey tarmac, stern faces
Traffic cops in parking places
Speed cameras, road works
Sunday drivers and Merc Berks

Pit stop for a quick pee
This time, not just for me
150 miles, my minds a whirl
All because of a baby girl

Confessions of a serial mower - the purple folk

Following Elizabeth's blog and comment about us fellow students,
I wrote this little poem today to describe us a bit. See what you think.

Some have young children
others have animals and pets
We have gels on the coast
and those down on the farm
There are views of the country
and even capital cities
Home and abroad, the mileage is vast
Folks that are poorly and
feeling quite raw
There is even one with a hole in her door!
Others leading busy lives to the max
All have a link that conjoins them
from afar
A bright purple tread that encircles
their hearts.

Confessions of a serial mower - Aga Ode

My Aga is my pride and joy
she is a girl and not a boy
Always on the go you see!
she's like a warm best friend to me
Gas fired and raring to go
that is why I love her so
Roasts, puds and summer tart
cooking doesn't have to be an art
The warming oven has been known
to rear a piglet left all alone
Now and then she may let me down
and then I give her a frightful frown
If a shiny beauty you so lust
I really think they are a must
So save all your pennies for the day
that an Aga babe might come your way

Confessions of a serial mower - my mum

I remember a huge bosom and a comfy lap
a place for me and room for the cat
Rhythmic heartbeat, white porcelain skin
spreading arms and calm hands welcome me in.
The smell of baking, the hiss of steam
a huge broad smile and a face agleam
Dark soulful eyes and permed curly hair
sometimes stern, but always fair
Ducks and chickens round the back door
shooing them off and giving them what for!
Sausage rolls and short Suffolk rusks
Straw, and hay and corn husks.
Red roses round the farmhouse door
What more could a daughter ask for.

Confessions of a serial mower - dreams of a French Chateau

I appear to be obsessed
with the hole in Sally's door
I'm afraid that if I visit
there may be more and more

The pool sounds so inviting
with his Lordship pottering round
and the Duchess in the driveway
sounds mighty grand I'll be bound

So I mustn't worry further
I shall save my pennies and behave
and get Easyjet to transport me
to those steamers in the shade.

Confessions of a serial mower - Purple Parallel Lives

Whilst I'm on my mower
You hit the shops
I wield a blade for arboreal lopping
You drive a merc and do frequent shoe shopping

Mine is a life of agas, ducklings and cats
Yours is all cafes and pink cinamay hats
Sugar beet, pigs, and rights of way,
All duly conspire to rule/ruin my day!

We each spend our lives breathing and being
Scuttling like mice, but never quite seeing
All so similar in numerous ways
Mothers, and lovers and country wives
Busy just living our parallel lives.

Anniversary Ode

Why can't I be,
like her with the curling hair
and the bee-sting ruby lips
and hips,
that curve and end in model legs

Why can't he be,
a prince in shiny armour
on white steed
like Richard Gere,
with flowers outstretched.

Why are we then,
here together against the odds,
jogging along surrounded by fields
of green and farming land.
Unfit, mismatched, still growing
together.

Confessions of a serial mower - before purple!!

Try not to get too excited - its just the stuff coming over from the other side.
And, maybe, if I start to write in ernest, as I should be doing, it could appear here.