Tag: fatherhood

  • Precipice

    I’m sat on the edge of a precipice

    Two months shy of thirty-six

    Where have the last thirty-five gone

    Will there be sixty-five more, my son?

    At ten I dreamed of dead poets

    Twice that I read thrice the stoics

    Then on the stroke of the big three oh

    I stood and let my shackles go.

    Now the hand holding the pen

    Is withered and worn, what then?

    The lyrical passages of time draw nigh

    My pen tip bends, leaks ink as I cry.

    Now here the lad he’s just turned three

    To my mind he’s utterly free

    No shackles will bind his legs henceforth

    His every question will find its true north.

    For while there is life in me still

    Nowt shall hamper my iron will

    My pen will write again with flowing ink

    To bring books back from the brink.

    <Metamorphosis

    Boy Wonder>