Grit

 

I cannot say for certain where I’m ‘from’

beyond the day I crawled into this world

and that’s the way I like it, truth be told,

to shape my own existence from the start.

 

That blond boy there with freckles and basin cut,

a shy one, wearing simple NHS specs,

in clothes bought big so he could grow

to fill them on a diet of Yorkshire pud.

 

An artist’s bent, that angered soldier dad.

Drawings and poems all saved by a proud mum.

The ‘no child of mine will work the pit’

philosophy that forced him to read books.

 

An obstinance that rebuffed the playground bully

and led to claims of ‘difficult and brusk’

written by teachers who wanted little angels

to sing in the Sunday catholic pews.

 

So he grew up wide and tall

like the crags at Malham cove

and although he looked hard and mean

he was porous like the limestone.

 

He loved, and he was loved

and he never compromised

and if I could tell him anything

it would be ‘don’t listen to old men’

 

Through my veins there flows Calder-blood,

my skin ingrained with coal dust from the pits,

my heart the spinning wheels of textile mills,

my attitude as hard as millstone grit

 

So no apologies from me about the way that I turned out,

no hand wringing absolutions for what’s done.

This is me! Fault ridden, scarred, unbroken.

a case of where I’ve been – not where I’m 'from'.