Burning Bibs

Burning Bibs.

That moment went fascination and opportunity collide,
The wonderment of innocence and a terrible price extracted on a child,
Copy cat,
flickering flames,
melted plastic and pain.

Mother, sister,
baby boy and burning bibs,
Leaving marks to be carried for life,
Permanent testament to inquisitive toddlers,
And unimaginable hurt inside and out.

Taking your eyes off them for a second,
Taking skin off to repair it,
Years in sterile wards and impersonal theatre’s,
And decades of love and care.

A man of three chins and eloquence,
A father with strength,
hope and unfathomable grief,
Parents and partners, husband and wife,
Rock and the water, together for life.




In the shadow of the Holy Mountain,
Joyous days of my youth,
Chasing impossible wolves of the sea,

On beach rocks washed by the mighty Atlantic.
Happy days tasting of salt & sunshine,

A battered rod & reel,

Brimming confidence and empty shopping bags,
Tinfoil wrapped ham sandwiches & effervescent cola,

The incoming tide pushing the intrepid Anglers back up the beach,
Until the heels of second hand shoes are pushed into saw grass dunes.

Picking seashells while holding out hope for a buried Volkswagen.

Ice cream cones dripping on hot badly laid tarmac where the west runs out and the horizon is broken by the last island.