This is a poem for my mother and my grandfather.

So.

You can have a thousand pounds for Christmas Bex.

You must promise me one thing.

That you buy the patent Docs.

You always wanted.

Armour.

You see.

If I must stomp the city.

I’d better have the boots to do it in.

Grampy.

Used to buy the boots.

Mammy does it now.

The only daughter.

Of an only son.

Love.

The city.

The best thing about London.

Said Grampy.

Is leaving.

Bristol.

I don’t know her best thing.

It’s not leaving though.

I’m staying.

At least for a while.

My boots.

They do stomp.

To work.

On the floor as I cheer the poets.

They try to stomp.

On the cold.

At the bus stop.

He’s there.

He holds me.

He always will.

I lean in and I steal his warmth.

So selfish.

When in my boots.

Is the love.

The warmth.

Of generations.