We travel along the silvery wet road. Waves crashing to the West throw light sprays of sea upon us. I taste the bitter water on my lips and inhale the scent of the ocean as we ride. Spruces of rough green grass startles the eye amongst the soft-sand, rippling dunes that trace the line of our route. Wind tears through it's blades pushing them forward, a direction urging us on up the endless road. Your hand touches my bare leg; a light coldness reflecting the beauty about us. The sensation burns deep beyond the fleshy boundaries of my skin. Through taut muscles into the rivers of blood that sustain me. I catch my breath as rain pounds down upon us and my bloody streams reach my heart making it beat with love for you.

Waiting for G

I am sat in my bed, my hair in a plait, listening to the whirr of my heating. The candle flame dancing on the drawers casts a flickering light across the wall and enhances my anticipation. Waiting for G to arrive is like waiting for the bath to fill. It is filled with longing. Longing to feel his warmth around me; the prospect of his loveliness exciting. Waiting to sink beneath the waves of his love, with the scent of him all about, only serves to heighten my sensitivity to the cold air of my room. I nestle further under the bed-covers and finish out my wait. Like the filling bath G always takes too long.

actions speak louder than words

On Monday the 8th of Feburary 2010 Garry Cook reminded me why I love him so much by stating, on twitter, that "actions speak louder than words" (see here -http://twitter.com/gazcook). An important point, perfect in fact for use to obliterate my blog written on Wednesday 25th November 2009 entitled 'words are everything'.

However, he must concede that he needed words to make that point. But then words can not be written without action. Words themselves could be actions. A muddy dichotomy.

The end.

Death of an Orchid

Steam billows about me licking my arms.
My pores strain to drink invisible drops.

Bottles surrounding me restrict my place.
My petals shed in to a brown bag of bits.

Icy panes frame me with frost at my back.
Nature begins to claim all that I have.

From the tips of my bloom I start to fade.
Slowly death works making crooked my spine.

Left without plume, naked, shriveled and bare.
Wasted from the lack of good care.

My dried roots held up like arthritic claws
Leaves limp left longing for life.

My decaying beauty, lingering sadness.
No water for tears within me.

Anniversary

With the eve of the day before us, we set out. Our work complete and yet on the cusp of beginning. The memories of a year gone by; behind us but within us, defining the fabric of our love. Almost overwhelmed with the silence between us we push on embracing the prospect of walking up, forcefully up, to Cracoe Monument.

The route unknown to us; a path to negotiate, explore. A mirror of our own journey into being and continuing. A welcomed challenge. Every step we take is deliberate and uncertain. Seeking exertion together. The vast soft billowing-blue hue of the sky above us, hard ice-crisped ground beneath us, an earthy climb before us.

The song of your voice the perfect melody to the awkward harmony of the pheasant calls and mild wind blowing. The sight of you soothing relief for the painful climb. My chest rises and falls, rises and falls, breath in, in and out. Getting deeper and heavier as we climb.

We break away from each other as we draw near to the top. Our desire now to reach the summit greater than our longing for each other. I only hear my breath and the breaking bracken beneath my feet. We choose different paths. I watch as you reach Cracoe before me and for a fleeting, sickening second I am lost to fear. Fear that you are gone, that we are lost to the wild, swirling chaos of our lives.

Then I see you, from a moment of humour; humour that closes it's colourful fist around my dark fear, pushing it away. Happiness swells from me and forces me on to you. I encircle the stone to reach you, past the blood-red poppies, over the irregular rock, I touch the cold smooth surface of the monument as I work my way to you.

In your arms I rest back, back to your front. Warm clouds of your breath fall softly, like quiet promises, about me and I glow. We survey the beauty before us; a glorious reward for our work. The amber of the falling sun resting heavy on the horizon sinking away like a forgotten love. The last of the light weaving through wisps of mist reaching out to us, bathing us gently as we stand and gaze. The intoxicating hormones of our achievement make me giddy with delight. I feel alive and en-spirited. I want you right there. My need for you exploding out into the dusky air.

We dance on over stiles, weathered rocks and through frost-bitten heather. In nature's secret place I open my body to you as my fingers trace the rough contours of the earth. I hear my cries rise up and float off on the breeze of the night. Soaring high toward the setting sun. I feel you within me and smile. A smile that carries me playfully down. Skipping, running, recklessly galloping down the heathered-hill. Back to where we set out, where we began.

The rythmic beat of your steps throbbing in my ears, thra tat, ta-tat, ta-tat. Delighting my heart, igniting my soul with every note. The music of that night will play on, within me for a life-time.

A dad

My dad is growing older.
Days flash by and with each interaction I am amazed at how little I know of him. I want to write the small nuggets of knowing down. Less I forget and they are suddenly washed away with time or each new understanding of him.

My dad is now 53. He was born in 1957. The year that saw Russia launch the first artificial satellites in to space, Britain test it's first hydrogen bomb, Elvis buy 'Graceland', Liverpool open the doors to The Cavern, and the Cinema show it's first viewing of my favourite film 12 Angry Men.

Paul Byrom, my dad, was second child to Rose Marie and Norman Byrom. He was born at home, on a small street in Padiham Lancashire. He shared a bed with his 3 brothers, Stephen, Mark and David. Paul was the lively, cheeky brother - and according to my late Nan, the most mischievous. A genetic expression that has successfully passed down the line and rests decidedly with my own son Seamus.

Dad's childhood mischiefs involved: shooting rats down 'Mongoli Swamp', climbing over the fat pipe, riding cows in the fields, jumping off bridges onto the back of the coal train, making 'trolleys' to race down the streets, sliding down Nana's bannister (the marks from such larks still remain), and getting chased by Nana and her fore-biding scolls!

Along with fun and antics, dad's life has had it's fair share of trauma. His dad died when he was ten years old leaving Nana with four boys to raise alone. Anecdotes of which have been shared through a disparate array of folk - some family or friends, some half-known colleagues at work, and sometimes complete strangers. It was only the other day, following a stressful meeting at work, that a midwife came up to me (our paths have never crossed before) and shared with me that she went to school with Dad and his brothers. She noted how she remembered seeing them lined-up, all neat and well-behaved in church. She passed on her memory and now it rests in mine colouring my image of this man, my father.

Other stories detail how dad was an absolute marvel. He used to make 'trolleys' (go-carts) with his friends using old pram wheels. Nothing particularly novel about that. Until you decide to make a bob or two helping your neighbours to wheel their suitcases (pre-pull along) to the bus stop so they can go on holiday.

Dad was also an impressive sports star. His specific talents were in, well, everything. He was the best in the county at neat diving, gymnastics, and running. In long jump he actually cleared the pit with his impressive 21ft 6.5inch jump when he was just thirteen years old. A jump he made in plimpsoles with holes in their bottoms. His school-boy achievements were so vast that his name still resides on the trophy my brother held during his sporting streak at the same school.

Unfortunately for dad, poverty got in the way of sporting progression. He was good a sport at a time with no scholarships or National programmes to spot gifted sports stars at schools. Children could leave school at fourteen. Dad left when he could. Leaving with one solitary Certificate of Secondary Education (appalls me to write it) in Art of all things. Perhaps it's from dad that I get my creative flare. I've certainly got his eyes, his nose, his legs, and his most horrendous temper - but I am not going to go into that here.

My dad, and his brothers, have built their life from the extreme raptures of torturous poverty and heart-breaking family turmoil. My Nana, their mother, all four foot ten of her, gave those boys her life as a platform to neat-dive into success. They are all hard-working, strong yet sensitive, loving men. It is all down to her, that wonderful women. The woman who raised them alone, cleaned four pairs of shoes every night so they shone (despite them having holes in their soles). The women who worked four jobs just to keep food on the table and a roof over their heads. The woman who went to bed every night on her own and awoke with the daily task of sorting four children out. I can barely manage the morning slog with just one boy to sort.

Marrying Sheena Byrom, my mother has been one of dad's luckiest moments. He knows it. He loves her. Always has since the age of fourteen. That's some impressive loving. It's something special to see a man, your dad, love your mother so intensely. It fills me with pride. I remember he took me on holiday to cheer me following a pretty saddening relationship break-up. Apart from the holiday being beyond brilliant I was able to see my father as a loving husband, a loving husband to Sheena. He talked of her with such passion, such deep commitment it was almost overwhelming. It was too much for dad, as he talked about his utter love for Mum his eyes would fill and I knew how much he felt. Amazing. What a guy.

Thoughts of Dad haven't always been so sunny but I suppose the aged memories of upset, anger and frustration become more mellow and fade, as time goes by. I do remember Dad shouting. Christ dad can shout. Thank-fully this dreadful Byrom trait has, like ancient memories, softened with age. He is now a stunning Grand-dad to my boy. Senstitive, strong, playful and so giving of his time. He has stepped in, so graciously as Seamus' own dad stepped out. For that I will be eternally grateful.

He is a brilliant man. There's nothing more can be said for someone who manages to cycle Land's end to John O'Groats (over 900 miles) in twelve days at the age of 53. But then me being me, I suppose there is. My dad could get better if he stopped reading the Daily Mail and lost his temper. It's my duty to help him try.

(and no, unfortunately, Dad didn't manage the bike ride on that)