wpid-wp-1413409401830.jpeg‘I love you daddy’
Words I never thought I’d hear
You whispered them softly in my ear
This morning
While I was between sleep and waking
Thought I was dreaming
Your smile was beaming
At me

Then you giggled
As I came to my senses
I tickled
You fell about laughing
Today the traffic
Can wait
This moment, a tonic
To remember forever
Such fun
I love you son.



Such a joy to spend precious time this morn,
With you my son, my middle born.

Ambling slowly along the Lagan,
When all of a sudden we should happen
Upon something, there high in the trees.
“What’s that up in the branches Lucas?”
Your wee head bobs and weaves for a jook as,
In a rustle of feathers and leaves a pigeon flees.

While the other’s are away at a party,
Outside the Lockkeeper’s our elevenses are hearty.
On your broad shoulders a shrewd wee head.
You eat the sausages and leave me the bread.

My wife Fiona asked me to write some poems about the boys. Here’s the first titled ‘Lucas’. I sketched it out in my mind as I walked and ran and joked about with Lucas this morning along the Lagan tow path.

We said hello to happy dogs, hunted ducks, spied a moorhen and ate a sausage butty out in the sun at the Lockkeepers. All in all a pretty perfect morning.

Yes or No #indyref #shortpoems

Yes or no, what way will it go?
For the pollsters it’s a mystery
Who’ll be on the wrong side of history
Remember, wherever we draw the borders
On these isles we’re all sisters and brothers

Here’s hoping, your eyes are open
So fare thee well, decide your future
No matter the outcome apply a suture
To heal the wounds, don’t let them fester
A united people will fair better

Make #poetry

There is no more honourable thing
Than to hew, and shape, and build, and make
To break
In the pursuit of something real
Something that will heal

Our modern ills and lethargy
Brought about by the tools
That make us fools
Rather than freeing our time
To find
We slouch and flick
An impulsive tic
Addicted to the screen

Always a yearning
The trades
Forefathers practised
Resurrecting the craftsman gene
Coursing through the veins
To leave a mark
On this world
A story to be told
Some thing to have, and behold.