the ground beneath my feet
soft grass that’s fresh with dew
cold with deeper warmth

the air that I breath
fresh breeze warming inside
rising to long strength

the hope within my dreams
wide and filling my morning
building fresh foundations

what could be harder
getting up before the dawn
beating a lone path

climbing into your cold cab

what could be cooler
sitting high above the snow
clearing a shared path

I miss my little brother. Especially at harvest. He was a hard worker – strong back and long reach. The kind of brother you want around.

‘Course, there was much more to him than strength and size. His art demonstrates that. He used to love experimenting with oils in his down time and had a knack for vivid battle scenes.

They say you paint what you know and not a year went by when he wasn’t called up for service. They would come to the farm to say the king needed him, and there was no refusing that call.

What he saw on the front line haunted him. So much was expected of him of course, but I think we overestimated his ability to cope with the ordeal of combat. Folk mistook his stature for a propensity for violence that needed release. We knew different. He was happier in the fields.  

I heard dad talking with him while he painted. It was clear my brother knew the value of a champion. The lives saved. The men who got to go back to their farms and families. The gods had gifted him, dad said. But when I see his canvases, that’s where I see the gift. Lasting reminders of the trauma that lesser men can wrought. Reminders of the suffering one man can save us from.

I miss Goliath.

He was there, just where you wouldn’t expect him – typical Jesus. There he was selling the Big Issue while chatting with mates. I was just walking round to Sainsbury’s to pick up some milk.
I couldn’t stop, I had to get back for my 2 o’clock.
If I’d known he’d be there I’m not sure what I would have done – maybe gone the other way. You know what it’s like, you just want to get on, but he has this way of getting you to slow down. It just takes up your time.
So there he was. He knew I’d seen him, even though I kept my head down and kept walking, checking I had a carrier. It really bugs me when I forget and I need to decide whether to buy another bag for life or act casual with a two pint-er hanging from a finger, despite the numbing cold. I’m not sure if I felt relieved or guilty that he didn’t call out. I could see he was busy. It’s no big deal.  We’d catch up another time.  
As I queued for the self-service, I wondered if he’d still be there, and if he was, would it be impolite to just nod and keep walking. I had that meeting. I’d said I’d be back in time. And I really wanted to have enough leeway to make a cup of tea and get my head in the right space.
I was just thinking through my options when he popped up beside me as I swiped my nectar card. ‘Hey, matey,’ he smiled. ‘Can I walk with you? I know it’s a working day, so I won’t slow you down.’
I felt like he’d read my mind – maybe he had.  I made a neutral sound, something like a casual agreement and we walked. I wasn’t sure what to say that wouldn’t end up taking all afternoon, so I thought I’d best say nothing.  
He kept his word and didn't slow me down. We walked and he talked about the stabbing. Everyone was. Noone I knew. A guy in his thirties just outside Sainsbury’s. He had walked to the Grosvenor, and they tried to help but it was too late for him. The police camped out all the following day.
I nodded, not seeing the point of adding anything. Like I said, it wasn’t like I knew him.
When we got to the corner, where the police tape still floated attached to the lamppost, he took my shoulder and made me pause. Then he gave me a hug.
You know his hugs – like warm memory foam. I really needed to get back for that call, but instead I stood and sobbed, like he knew I needed to.
Blast. That really messed up my plans for the afternoon.

Poets write with crooked lines
Lines that zig and zag
Lines that duck and dive

Poets write with messy lines
Lines that weave and wave
Lines that come alive

Poets write with spiral lines
Lines that slow and speed
Lines that fall and rise

Poets write with broken lines
Lines that leap and climb
Lines that launch and fly

Poets write with solid lines
Lines that fully embody
Lines that wholly embed
Hope

“You’re big and ugly enough,” he did mean it kindly
as he passed me a wrench and continued to guide me.

“You’re big enough and ugly enough, to handle this truth.  
It’s now time that you learned that it’s just what we do.
We take on the rough along with the smooth.
You will learn that the world expects this of you.”

And so, year upon year I took on rough truths,
until cold battered hands were no longer smooth.
I grasped the sharp nettles, and I braced for disputes
until strong opposition conceded to move.

I ignored muscle pains and maintained my strong grip,
all the more tighter when I felt my hands slip.
Through gritted cracked teeth, expletives might slip
but I beat mounting odds with dull cries of relief.

Now a few decades on, I’m still big and I’m ugly,
but I’ve got a light touch for words that hold beauty.
There’s a time for raw strength but space for what’s lovely
and the lovely gives strength to meet daily duties.

My dad did mean well when he passed on his insights,
but there’s much more to my strength than winning each fight.
I’m no longer a big, ugly stereotype -
The best part of me can be found when I write.

Father-craft has been passed down from father to father,
losing and gaining at each slow bequeathing.
Less heavy-handed there, more soft-hearted here
at each generation’s rejection of the disciplines of the past.
So much so that I wonder what's left of the original art
and what we've lost and what we've gained.

This is my food for thought as I feed my daughter
crumbled digestive with mashed banana -
(Perhaps a favourite of mine and my father's.)
- while she grins and chortles, blowing biscuit dust
and spittle bubbles with absolute child-delight.

Food for thought and thanks as I drink in her smile,
wipe my cheek and laugh along, prolonging
the choice perfection of this fathering moment.