Some of the most fun advice I’ve been given as a writer is to think of an idea and attack it from every possible angle. And when you think you can’t get any more out of it, keep going.

By flogging a dead horse with a pen and imagination, you’ll be surprised with what can happen.

Here’s an example, it’s a poem for my son who is growing up to be a northerner by his southern dad.

***

You, My Son, Are a Northerner

In your hometown
the sun takes its time
to peel off its duvet clouds.

But it’s there every day,
for a few seconds at least,
even when it rains short As, cobs and barms.

Wet tarmac is a disco ball
for you to dance through
the orchestra of strangers playing
“Alright pal”.

You know the names of
landlords, dry cleaners, the uncle of
two friends from your school.

You have chosen between blue and red.
You are asked about.
You are recognised.
You are seen.

Trains and buses are infrequent here –
a chance for you to take time
as seriously as it takes you here.

You, my son, are a northerner.

Coats look good on your swaggering shoulders.
The barber shapes your sideburns
with Liam Gallagher confidence
without me even asking him to.
You stop to talk.

You wave at off duty lollipop men.
You have baths and run fast down paths.
You are pet. You are hun. You are love.
You are a thick brew.
You are a “just popping in to see if you need anything”.

You are a football wanting you to kick it,
a peak daring you to climb it.
You are a guitar allowing you to play it,
a song begging you to sing it.
You are music. You are culture.
You are Lakes and wind and shorts in winter.

You are a type of brick my southern eyes have never seen
that turn landscapes into a history of strength.
You, my son, are a northerner.

***

If you’d like to celebrate someone in your life, get in touch for a poem today.