Someone different held my hand. 1997.

(2018 –  Based on memories and kind of unfinished and clumsy. Pen rambling)

At seventeen I left this country
Couldn’t wait to get away
I travelled down to London town
To check out other ways.

I innocently wandered through
The dark, crazed streets alone
I met the first black man I ever knew
Who offered me his heart and home

He was a beefy boxer
Twin brothers, he had earned some fame
They heralded from Jamacia
Pete Wilson was his name

He gave me pride in knowing
That his culture could also be mine
‘Respect the noble warrior’
The lesson of that time.

He shared with me another side
I side I would have never known
If he had not seen me wandering by
And stopped to say ‘hello’

I got a place in college
to study art and muck around
I had to leave that lovely man
’cause he tried to catch me and wrestle me to the ground

I’d fallen in with my own folk
He understood that lovely bloke
My college years had just begun
Years of innocence, abuse and fun

We lived all over South London then
Crashing out in the early morning
Playing with the city and living out our aimless dreams
Filling up with flying ambitions
And chasing our irreverent dreams.

Thank you Pete, for holding my hand as I met that wonderful city.

Forever grateful.Someone to hold my hand



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