I started writing about the same time as I started shaving; it was a radical time of life. I wrote not much of interests, and certainly nothing to do with my life down the pit. I left the pit for two reasons - Maggie shut it and I broke both legs. Hey, life goes on. I repaired the legs, went to Uni - three times - and started working in TV making documentaries with Roger Cook. I packed that malarkey in and started my own PR company. A while back I started writing again, mainly songs, but then poems. of sorts. I've since gone on to get lovely feedback from Linton Kwesi Johnson, "played" a number of festivals and opened twice for Attila the Stockbroker. Those two, JCC and Roger McGough are my key inspirations. I try not to write like anyone, but you can't help influences. I currently reside in the finest city in the world, spend a lot of the lighter days in fields with friends and help to run a music festival that raises funds for charities.
I wrote this in memory of someone. The shadow of a mountain When you’re born in the shadow of a mountain You know the warmth of the darkest of shade You know nothing will ever rise above that mountain In whose image and shadow you were made When cast in the shadow of a mountain Your caste can feel defined before birth Your path may seem predestined and written As your feet struggle to impress in the earth But there’s a comfort in the shadow of a mountain When the wind howls, you always feel safe Though the sun bakes, the snow burns, and the rain teems You know you’re in the best place When it’s forged in the furnace of a volcano A mountain will rise, and it will kiss the sky In its heart, if you listen, you can hear it saying Son, don’t be afraid to look the king in the eye As you grow in the shadow of a mountain Its stone can feel cold to the touch But as the snow melts and falls upon your cheeks You know the mountain loves you so much Whether sandstone, limestone or granite All mountains wither and crumble; they must The winds and ice of time they erode them All great mountains return to become dust So, if you’re born in the shadow of a mountain And the sun does not rise one cold day Feel the pulse of the mountain inside you Stand up, kiss the sky, look the king in the eye – be a mountain, be glad you were made that way.
All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.
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