I am a poet and folk/blues singer and was co-editor of Aireings Poetry Magazine for almost 12 years. Currently live and work in the Yorkshire Dales.
Down All The Days
Down all the days so quickly as I fly
On archetypal feet of mortal clay
Towards the predetermined moment, I
Use wine to dull the 'dimming of the day.'
Like my late father, who would banish pain
And demons with a daily dose of Teachers,
I'll fill my glass again and then again
And stick two fingers up at all the preachers.
I don't believe in Heaven, nor did he,
But recognise Old Nick's genetic hoofprint,
The father/daughter likeness people see,
Not blood and bone, but chromosomal misprint.
I think of him relaxing somewhere, pissed,
Saying "God, give up, you know you don't exist."