a story about my father

Once upon a time
We went on one of our adventures
Scarborough, Bridlington
Filey or Flamborough –
Somewhere with sand
And greenish blueish northern sea.

The beach was full of things to discover
But the tides trapped us:
We started to return
And found the waves had met the rocks first
Stranding us in a horseshoe of stone.

To the left, the sea.
To the right
Ahead and behind us
The cliff.

You went up first
Plastic bag of food in hand
Showing me a trail to safety
Probably made only for goats.

I followed anyway
Sometimes on my hands and knees
Eyes up, determined to be brave
Like you.

You never crawled
You didn’t fear the drop.

I remember, vividly
Balancing on a path no wider than my foot
The cliff dropping away on both sides
And I was too stubborn to call for you
Too frightened to distract you –
What if you fell?

Anyway, we made it.

I think I held your hand in relief
And we laughed the laugh of avoiding death
And on the drive home, we agreed
Never to tell my mother.

Two line poems

There are many ways
To hold someone.


Have you ever just
Wanted to abandon yourself?


You are my brother
And I will always be yours.


God, no, don’t touch me
I will collapse.


There are many places I call home.
I am not sure if any of them are true.

Wilful ignorance; or, why debate is often useless

So today I quote-tweeted a thread on why anti-racist people like me don’t bother debating Nazis (full thread here) and I particularly focused on this:

I’m home now so I’m just going to elaborate a little on it – particularly as this is still a sticking point with many of my friends and acquaintances.

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