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.