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.

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.