What’s a place you visited that felt like home? If I had to choose a place in Europe that feels like home, it would have to be Cyprus. There was something about the laid-back way… More
The Invisible Man
If you had to switch lives with a fictional character for a week, who would you choose?
Go to be the invisible man for hundreds of reasons
I’m not going to bother with a image
When Love Has Lost Its Fire
Once you were the flame
that warmed my winter room,
the golden bird upon the bough,
the light before the bloom.
I drank the summer from your lips,
and thought the summer stayed;
but autumn came with silver hands
and gathered what we made.
Now when you cross the quiet door,
the shadows rise and sing,
and all the ghosts of former days
come trembling on the wing.
What once was music in my blood
has grown a mournful bell;
the heart that built a house for you
now knows that house too well.
And yet I wonder, should I go
beyond your darkened shore,
might some forgotten joy return
and knock upon my door?
Might I beneath another moon
walk lightly through the rain,
and hear, among the sleeping trees,
the old laugh rise again?
For love can be a golden chain
when first its links are bright,
then rust can gather round the heart
and turn the gold to night.
I have held fast through many storms,
afraid to lose your name;
but what is love that leaves a man
a stranger to his flame?
So let the last leaf leave the tree,
let winter have its way.
Some loves must grow old
before the heart can grow free.
And if I walk beyond your reach,
through fields of frost and grey,
perhaps the dawn will find me there
and teach my soul to stay.
Not free of love,
nor free of loss,
nor healed of all I knew —
but once again beneath the sun,
perhaps I shall be me,
and laugh as I once knew.
Steve Halstead.
We Go Back a Long Way
For Kim
It started back in Scholes, so many years ago,
Two children with no thought of where their lives would go.
I still recall that blonde-haired girl, so pretty even then,
And somehow through the passing years grew prettier again.
Your kindness came from Peter and from my “Auntie Joan”,
They gave you love and strength that you have made your own.
Through all the changing years you’ve always been right there,
With friendship, words of kindness and a heart that’s always cared.
I tell you that I owe you more than words could ever show,
You simply say, “We go back a long way” — as though I didn’t know.
Perhaps I would, I hope I would, but this I know is true,
Whenever life has brought me down, I’ve always counted on you.
More than fifty years have passed since childhood days we knew,
And through those years I’ve learned what friendship means from you.
If I could turn the clock back and begin our lives anew,
I’d gladly walk that road again — as long as it led to you.
For Kim
All my love,
Paul
Captain Corelli’s Mandolin.
What’s the longest book you’ve ever read?
Probably Captain Corelli’s Mandolin.
I’ve read it six or seven times, so does that count as one really long book?
I love the way it brings together two things that shouldn’t really sit comfortably together — the brutality and absurdity of war, and a beautiful, complicated love story. It can be heartbreaking one minute and tender the next.
Perhaps I keep going back to it because, each time I read it, I notice something different. The story stays the same, but I’m not quite the same person reading it.
Lost Our Rizz
I wake up groaning, joints all shot,
My back’s on strike, my knees are not.
My hair’s a ghost, my gut’s appeared,
And somehow hair grows from my ears.
I used to flirt, I used to swoon,
Now I snore like a broken tune.
My kids say “sus,” I nod and grin,
Then Google what they meant again.
They tell me something’s “giving mid,”
I’ve no idea what either did.
They shout “no cap,” I check my head,
Then wonder what the hell they said.
I tried their slang — said “lit” and “bet,”
They laughed so hard, I nearly wet.
I tried some “rizz” — they cried with shame:
“Dad, please don’t ever say that again.”
Apparently I’ve got no aura now,
Though God knows when I lost it, or how.
I called their trainers “rather nice” —
Apparently that’s social suicide.
Hangovers linger like unpaid rent,
My liver wonders where youth went.
I bend too fast — a pop, a crack —
Then spend ten minutes getting back.
Romance now’s a quieter affair:
Netflix, tea, my favourite chair.
No clubs, no taxis home at three —
Just “one more episode” for me.
My glory days? They’ve packed and fled,
I’d rather have an early bed.
The kids may think I’m past my prime;
I’m usually asleep by half past nine.
So here’s to age, the creak, the fart,
The dodgy knee, the ageing heart.
We’ve lost our rizz, our skin, our hair,
But not our right to drink and swear.
Raise your pint and toast the lot —
The old, the grumpy, slightly hot.
They call us “mid” — well, let them say:
We invented half their slang anyway.
And when they “skibidi” round the place,
I’ll nod with wisdom on my face.
I may not know what one word means —
But neither do they, so it seems.
Steve Halstead.
My Dog and the Quiet Turning
I don’t roam far these days.
The roads I loved have had their praise,
but the thrill’s grown still, the urge grown small —
I’ve no need now to chase it all.
The world still spins, the planes still fly,
but I’ve no hunger for the sky.
Peace has roots — I’ve found mine here,
where mornings bloom and thoughts grow clear.
The bottle sleeps upon the shelf,
and I feel more like my true self.
No haze, no blur, no bitter ends —
just simple nights, the talk of friends,
and quiet laughter, soft and low,
the kind that asks for nowhere to go.
I sip the air, the dawn, the rain —
and never wake to thirst again.
The crowd’s thinned out, as crowds will do.
I’ve kept the kind, released the few
who stayed half-present, half-untrue.
I don’t chase love, I don’t demand —
those meant to stay will understand.
And if they drift, I let them be;
I’ve grown content with only me.
The mirror greets me, calm and wise —
a few more lines, a steadier guise.
They mark the storms I’ve come through strong,
each wrinkle proof I’ve lasted long.
I smile at that familiar face,
slowed at last to a gentler pace.
My old dog dozes by the chair,
his silvered coat, his patient stare.
He dreams of fields we used to roam,
but seems quite glad I’ve brought him home.
No need for long, uncertain miles —
just quiet walks and knowing smiles.
He leans his head against my knee —
two souls at peace, content, and free.
I walk short paths, but take them slow;
I’ve learned there’s nowhere else to go.
The trees I pass don’t chase the breeze;
they whisper wisdom through their ease.
They’ve taught me how to stand and stay,
to live the soft, unhurried way.
So let the world keep rushing by —
its endless noise, its reasons why.
I’ll tend my small and steady flame,
call things by their simpler name.
Stillness, I’ve found, is not the end —
it’s where the heart learns how to mend.
Steve Halstead.
When Rowan Burned Beside the Door
When Rowan burned beside the door
And ash leaves silvered every well,
The old wives knew what every crow
And every turning swallow came to tell.
No ledger ruled the moonlit field,
No factory whistle called the dawn;
The harvest rose from hidden hands,
And every sheaf wore autumn’s crown.
The elders walked with hawthorn staffs,
Their shadows longer than the years,
And saints and wandering fairy queens
Were neighbours to the mortal ear.
The blackthorn kept forgotten vows,
The standing stones remembered names,
While children gathered evening stars
As though the heavens were village flames.
Then came the engines, dark as crows,
With iron hearts that never dreamed;
They drove bright roads through sacred hills
Where once the silent sidhe had gleamed.
The wells grew blind, the fiddles slept,
The chapel bell forgot the rain,
And coins like winter leaves were blown
Across the kingdom’s ancient plain.
Yet often, when the west is red
And sheep stand windward on the wold,
I hear beneath the breathing earth
The slow, deep music of the old.
A ploughman’s ghost bends over clay,
A woman hums beside the fire,
And smoke ascends like faithful souls
Returning to a hidden choir.
The learned men may weigh the years
In profit, steam and tempered steel;
They cannot measure fairy dust,
Nor know what rooted spirits feel.
For history is a white swan’s wing
Upon the darkening water cast,
And every circle on the mere
Is made by something that has passed.
So let me walk the hollow lane
Where elder trees the twilight keep,
Until the living and the dead
Are folded in one dreaming sleep.
For all the kingdoms built of gold
Will sink beneath oblivion’s tide,
But customs whispered into children
Follow like the turning tide.
And somewhere in the gathering dusk,
Beyond the reach of worldly fame,
The old gods warm their fading hands
At one forgotten cottage flame,
Waiting until the restless world
Has spent its bright, unquiet breath,
To call us home by ancient songs
Whose silence is deeper than death.
Steve Halstead.
Changes
How does your mindset affect your financial success?
My mindset has probably had more influence on my financial success than I realised.
I’ve never been driven purely by money. I’ve always wanted to build something, work hard and provide a good life for my family, but as I’ve got older my definition of success has changed. I’m beginning to realise that having more isn’t necessarily the same as being better off.
These days I’m more patient and measured. I’m learning that pushing too hard isn’t always the answer—whether that’s in business, at the gym, or in life. Consistency and making sensible decisions over the long term are far more valuable than chasing quick results.
I also think being content with what I have changes the way I look at money. I don’t need to constantly spend to create happiness. A walk with the dog, noticing a view or a flower, enjoying time with family, or simply sitting doing nothing can be worth far more than something I could buy.
For me, financial success is becoming less about accumulating more, and more about having the freedom and security to enjoy the life I’ve worked for. Money is useful, but the real wealth is having the time, health and mindset to appreciate it.
Where You Rest
The bench where you linger
Has no longing for roses.
The light has already chosen
Its oldest and gentlest bloom.
The trees incline without knowing why;
Even the wind forgets its wandering
To gather the silence
That settles about your hands.
No gardener could improve this place.
The earth has remembered your footsteps
Long before they arrived,
And keeps their music beneath the moss.
Birdsong is only an echo
Of something your breathing began.
The ivy climbs for a better view,
The old stones soften with listening.
Only those who measure beauty
By petals that fade in a week
Would ask where the flowers have gone.
The wise see differently.
They know the garden flowers itself
Wherever you choose to be,
And that every season, however barren,
Waits quietly
For the grace of your presence.
Steve Halstead.
Talking Pug
If your pet could talk, what would be the first thing it says?
You know that look I give you? I’m actually judging you
The Yorkshire Poet & Friends 