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The sun is strong,
the temperature is hot,
the air like it is on fire,
the skin of everyone is burning and red-
no one wants to be inside on a day like today,
but no one wants to be scorched by the sun’s rays for too long:
you may love the sun, you may not,
but the sun can be too much for some sometimes,
and it can make people tired;
nevertheless though there is no way,
when the weather is like it is today,
anyone could possibly choose to stay in bed.
The heat of the city feels like a wave of energy;
the people out and about are like an ocean;
the shops and businesses have all there doors and windows open;
the breeze of the wind makes people feel at ease;
the life of many things combine,
and what can be felt and sensed
is like intoxication from fine wine.
The open spaces are like a haven for sun-worshipers;
the amount of people on the streets
is truly inspiring for street artists;
the food and drink being consumed
makes the entire day feel like a party;
the enjoyment that is openly apparent
makes it seem like everyone is on holiday.
Summer in the city, in any city around the world,
is different to spending your time on an island beach,
or in a town in a popular hot country,
where the sea, and the tops of mountains,
when they are touched by the sun shine like pearls;
summer in the city is an inspiring time and place-
there is so much to attract your attention,
and so many things to put a smile on your face.
Summer in the city is full of infinite sights, sounds,
smells, and tastes;
summer in the city is filled with tantalizing invitations
that only a fool would let go to waste;
summer in the city is like a bubbling coffee pot;
summer in the city- the metal, the windows, the ground,
the people, are hot.
You saved me as soon as I met you,
you caught me as I fell,
you raised me up from the gloom,
you made me come out of my shell.
A hero doesn’t always need a suit,
a hero doesn’t always need a name,
a hero can give you something to listen to
when you have been spending a lot of you time
having the rest of the world on mute,
a hero can be someone who saves you every day
again and again.
You saw me instantly for who I was,
you accepted me for all my flaws,
you embraced everything I gave
and gave back to me the most incredible love,
you created doors where there were only walls.
A hero is always there when they are needed,
a hero is constantly on a journey,
a hero can be any age, in any walk of life-
a hero can be a teacher, policeman or a policewoman,
a carer, an artist, a writer, a friend-
and the most unique, but humble, unbelievable,
and special person you have ever met,
because they can always lift you up and show you
things you can’t see.
You were like a burst of beautiful light from the sky,
you carried me far and away like a kite on the wind,
you would give you last dollar to anyone in need,
because you are so generous, and because you are kind-
you cared for me when one person to hold me
and never let me go was all that I wanted.
A hero has super-powers,
but sometimes not those that you would expect,
and to see them for how incredible and super they are
you have to see them for what they are.
A hero knows you and would never forget you.
A hero would never take you for granted
and would always see you and describe you as a star.
A hero is a hero no matter where they are-
sometimes they don’t even realize that they are a hero,
because they are who they are, and they just do what they do.
You make me smile every day.
You have saved me countless times since we met,
in more ways than you will ever know.
You fill me with hope, and when I am with you I am unafraid.
You are untouchable, you are bullet-proof.
You are a dream come true, you are my hero.
As I look out my bedroom window,
as I watch the wind displace the leaves
as it gusts through the branches of the trees
and makes telephone cables
and power-lines sway from side to side with every blow,
as it seems as if every leaf is now well on the way
to changing colour for the season,
I look down to the street below
and I see a little boy riding his bike
on the pavement outside my house
wearing a big coat and a bobble-hat;
and instantly I feel a wave of something come over me,
as if the winds of time were blowing in unison
with the winds of the world outside, and taking me back
to a time, to an autumn day like this one, when I was a kid-
a time when I loved to play outside with my friends,
and my sister Clare,
and play a ‘catch me if you can-type of game’ called “tag”
in which I never minded being the one who was “it”.
I used to love riding my bike;
I used to love exploring the great place where I lived;
I used to love looking out my window
on a dark, rainy night, and being in awe of the sound of thunder,
and energized by the sight of a lightning-strike;
I used to love playing hide and seek-
and I swear no one could ever find me,
nor think of the right place where I was hid.
I had a very happy childhood;
I had everything a child could ever want;
I had so much love bestowed upon me,
and I was taught so many lessons and I learned so many skills
from my Mum and Dad- from appreciating the value
of the smallest of things, and the briefest of moments,
to the importance of hard work,
and knowing the best way to cut wood.
I remember smiling a lot when I was a child,
I remember laughing, creating, watching,
constantly asking questions, and learning from everyone,
I remember times when I used to sit quietly,
I remember times when I used to run wild,
I remember having so much fun.
I remember the good times, and the bad;
I remember the people I knew and who knew me who just suddenly died,
I remember the times when I had to say goodbye.
I remember all the times when I felt so happy
I thought my heart was going to explode;
I remember the tears that came after a fall,
and the times when I didn’t know what was going on,
and I felt sad.
The world has changed.
I have slowly, but surely, grown up.
The home I have known all my life
feels like a picture that is constantly being reframed.
I am outwardly very different from the boy I was-
from my shoe-size, to my likes and dislikes,
to my hair colour, and hair cut.
Inside I am still the same-
I feel and I know that, even now.
Inside I am under no illusion in my belief
that in everything I do, and to everyone I meet, I make a difference;
I don’t always know why, in what way, or how,
but I do feel, and I have always felt,
like everything that I was doing had a purpose and meant something-
even if I was writing a story, or painting a picture,
even as a child I knew that there was so much more to be seen
than could ever be seen, and that no matter the dark clouds
that sometimes swirled around above your head
there would always be something to have hope for,
that there is always a silver-lining to everything,
and that there would one day be a great,
beautiful, and bright future.
Looking at my own reflection in the glass of my window,
as the sun shines on my face,
I look into my own eyes-
the eyes that have seen thousands of sunrises,
the eyes that have seen so much beauty, hope, and inspiration,
in their time, and which have imprinted on them images
that I will take to the grave,
of sights and faces that nothing could ever erase.
I look at my own reflection,
and I see the boy that I was,
and the joy and the hope in his eyes, in my eyes;
I look at my own reflection, and I see the man who I am,
the boy who I am always going to be,
who still lives in the place, the house, the home,
with the memories he treasures,
and will always remember and return to,
in the middle house of three, on Fair field rise.
Icicles on bicycles, frozen spiderwebs on flowerbeds;
it’s spring now, but the snow just doesn’t want to go.
Children are enraptured in the joy of playing outside,
building snowmen, and having snowball fights;
eager travellers, who want to jet-off to warmer climates,
are checking-in at their airport arrivals desk
and finding out that their departure from winter England
may be delayed, or sadly one of the unfortunate “Cancelled Flights”.
The weather is the topic of almost every-other conversation-
some people are embracing it for pleasure,
some people are venturing out at the cost of their own lives,
some people are saying that they “have had enough”;
while other people make the most of the snow-
the way it falls like sprinkled sugar on a bowl of cereals,
the way it lies so beautifully on the ground,
the way it records the momentary paths of passersby,
animals, birds foraging for food-
some try to go as fast as they can,
while others just take it slow.
The wind blows the snow like dust;
the world looks like another planet;
on every window there is a thick white frost;
every pavement, every road, is covered so overwhelmingly,
and the snow is so compacted it is as hard granite.
People live in a perpetual ice-life everyday somewhere on Earth,
and they carry on regardless;
we here in the UK always say that we are prepared
for all weather eventualities,
but when weather like the cold-front
that has been visiting us recently, and testing out tolerance, comes,
we are always left dazed for days,
we always struggle to adapt-
some reach their peak, and some surpass their peak,
of being overcome with debilitating levels of stress.
I, on the other hand, take every step in my stride
and I treat every footprint in the snow
as if it were one small step on the moon.
I will always have great memories of my time growing up:
playing in the snow with my sister,
remembering my Dad taking my sister and me
for a sledge-ride to the shops near our home-
magical memories that take my breath away
and rise like hot air inside of a balloon.
The temperature is rising,
the sky is turning blue,
the snow is melting,
the wishes of millions are coming true.
The snow is returning to from whence it came;
people thinking about their commute to work tomorrow
breath a sigh of relief-
until the weather presenter on the TV says that
snow may fall again during the night,
and that “there may be a chance of some rain”.
Spring is here, Summer will arrive before we know it,
and I think I can safely say that the climate of Earth
and the seasons of nature are changing,
and we must all change, adapt, and be prepared for everything-
because, who knows what is waiting in the wings to arrive,
who knows what the winds of uncertainty will bring.
The Life, the Light, the Tears, of the Poet of the Sphere 