For over fifteen years he has been in loco parentis (or Poetry Father) for the Poetry Society's Young Poets Award writing week at one of the Arvon Foundation's writing centres.


I need help singing this city, call in
the experts from across the Pond.

We're a bit of a boy-gang: The Boss,
me and Woody, Bobby Dylan.
Guitars and harmonicas blazing.
Reclaiming the mean streets. 

From merchants and slavers.
From landlords and jailers.
From bankers and bailiffs.
From judges and sheriffs.

On behalf of the dockers.
The seamen and stokers.
For the clerks and the typists.
Shop assistants. Machinists.

For the can-lads and messengers. 
The drivers and passengers.
For the servants and cleaners.
Street women. Street traders.

From Everton to Kirkby.
From Anfield to Wembley.
From Hong Kong to Chinatown.
From Toxteth to Freetown.

From Mann Island to Ellis Island.
From Liffey to Mersey.
From Speke to Fazakerley.
From Pierhead to Netherley.

City of coming and never going away.
City of leaving and never coming back.

Getting the Hang of it