Golden sunlight drips
Kintsugi salve on the hills
Three trees remaining

Sunlight endows warmth
Golden strata breathe promise
Three trees remaining

The hills pray for aid
The sun renders grains of gold
Three trees remaining

And by remaining
Three trees swell with seeds of hope
Gold granulation

Oh, that we'd all have
huge and messy hearts,
that we'd expel
the shrivelled, the trimmed
as no longer fit for purpose.

I just know I'm weak.
And now I know that
and that it's not that unusual,
I now know it better.
Like when you get to know
someone in your life better.
Like your dad - adult to adult
and you find words
that better describe him
and in describing,
you find understanding.
So it's like that.
And now that I know it better
(the weak bit),
I find that I can bear it
better
just like my dad before me.

And by this they will know you are my disciples
That you love one another.
By this, they will know you are my children
That you love me,
heart, soul, mind, and strength.
By this, they will know you are my body
That you are bruised, hurting and *****
because you have been out on the streets,
loving every neighbour as yourself.

My third home is so unmoved.  
It stays as recalled
smelling of the comfort of the first and last
as if to harbour memories regardless
of age, refusing to release its hold,
it stands so full of heart,
with echoes of dinner

with steam lifting from hefts
of potatoes and withered veg,
an adamant replay of checkered tablecloths
and brown orange tableware,
long cracked and stacked. You see how it was.
Close your eyes and hear the scrapes
of plates, the kettle.  
And that veined mug.

Perch up here
so we can judge you,
analyse and season you
so to help you redefine you.

Let us make-up for the blemished you,
for the degrees of the damaged you
and so apply a brand-new
foundational layer to you.

We can enhance you
with a new shade of you,
we can sponge, brush and fill-in you,
conceal the less-than-perfect you.  

We can blush you,
highlight and contour you,
fade you and blend you
right into the crowd
of all our just-like-you’s.

We can make-up for the real you
and ensure no one ever gets a clue
as to what is the essence of the beauty
of the true you.

Just perch here
and let us re-make you.

I come from stand-up strong tea, delivered before 7 with a ‘don't think about sleeping in’ fading down the stair. I come from cornflakes with full cream benefits and fuller if you got down quick, before Dad shook the milk.

I come from warming up the telly in time for Crackerjack and Crossroads and the nearest of us having to get up cos we had no remote control. I come from snooker in black and white and the thrill of the shouts of wrestlers' faux fights. I come from aerial adjustments to the family seating in unity before the fat, three-channel TV.

I come from tempers and broken locks, with threats of knocking your block off. I come from being ******* at sports and seeped in feelings of coming up short. I come from hereditary parenting, watery eyes, and the cushion of mum’s white lies. I come from family trips with back seats sun-baked, and travel sickness triggered by the waft of St Bruno Flake.

I come from first gen suburbanites, budget tensions and dad's three jobs when things got tight. I come from the garden turned vegetable patch with biting rhubarb, rubber runner beans and the stench of stewed cabbage. I come from a street in open plan, common homes and gardens, one good-or-ill clan.

And if I could, I’d plan a street-long celebration: Party Sevens and Tizer and shades of beige food for every occasion. I’d put on the gramophone with Joe Loss All Time Party Hits and no room to spare, with the kettle on repeat and mum's Tupperware full of broken biscuit bits.

And over mis-matched tea mugs, I’d tell them I’m okay, I’ve moved to find my own way. I’d assure them that blood is still thicker, but do me a favour and get over me living north of the river.