I sat on the slagheaps for hours,
When I was a slip of a lad.
Never leaving, whatever the weather,
Til I could walk home with me dad.
At eighteen, he fought in the trenches,
Caught up in a world going mad.
He cried out in the night as an old man,
For the horror lived on with me dad.
On Sat’days we cheered on The Boro,
Dreams of glory were all that we had,
While the red and white scarf me mam knitted,
Kept me warm as I watched with me dad.
More often than not, we were losers,
There were times when the beatings were bad.
But our bridge framed a steely defiance,
And at least I was there with me dad.
Now I walk with his ghost in the moonlight,
His face painfully pallid and sad.
The flames have gone out, only ashes remain,
How I long for those days with me dad.
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(I love the work of Middlesbrough-born artist Mackenzie Thorpe and this was written to complement a painting of his, called With Me Dad.)