I wish I loved lawnmowers Poem by Mark Waldron

I really do wish I did. Because if I loved
lawnmowers I could go

to the lawnmower museum I just heard
about on the radio in a piece

about small museums.
It's in Southport apparently — 

a seaside town "fringed to the north by
the Ribble Estuary," according to Wikipedia.

It would be quite a trip to go up there,
and I'd almost certainly

have to stay the night. I think I might stay
in the Prince of Wales Hotel, which looks

conveniently situated for the station
and the museum too. I can hardly bear

to think how much I'd be looking forward
to making that trip if I loved lawnmowers.

On the radio they said they have all sorts
of models from Victorian ones all the way

through to a state-of-the-art robot one
that's powered by solar energy.

If I was planning the visit I'd probably
have a bit of a virtual walk-round

on Street View, and in fact I've just done
exactly that in an effort to capture

the feeling I'd have if I was actually
anticipating a trip to the lawnmower museum.

Exploring the area I discovered
that Southport looks very much like

Weston-super-Mare, where, as it happens,
I stayed in a halfway house many

years ago after doing a stint in rehab.
Now crack cocaine — that I loved.