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 …
There is no more honourable thing Than to hew, and shape, and build, and make To break Sweat In the pursuit of something real Tangible Tactile 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 Ourselves We slouch and …