One day I will be a father. For as long as I can remember I have had an assurance that undertaking that role will be the greatest part of my life. I think about it so often. Its strange but I feel like I love my children already. My heart yearns for them desperately. I dread to think what I may write when they are eventually here with me - as my heart bursts open with such a great love.

I believe myself somewhat cognizant of what fatherhood will entail, yet utterly naive to all its realities. I can comprehend that the child will bring with it a great many sleepless nights, frustration and fear of damage caused by my own inability to control my temper at times. I am also aware that there will be times when I will be utterly swept along by the bubbling up of joy that they will inevitably bring.

The one thing I know for certain is that that world - the world in which I am a father - I know nothing of it. But it brings me great joy to dream it.

You see, I feel very similar at 30 as I did at 20, and further back. I struggle to not play silly made-up games even in public. I can be quite a nuisance, dancing up and down the aisles on the weekly shop. Even when I was a teenager I would walk down the streets by my parents house and dance and sing aloud songs from West Side Story and pretend I was one of the Sharks or one of the Jets. In fact I would pretend I was all of Sharks and all of the Jets.

These things to me are not childish. I know my responsibilities and I endeavour to keep them. I am learning how to listen, how to communicate with others, how to navigate conflict.

I am also keeping those joyful avenues clear and open - both for my own silly enjoyment - and so I can easily join my wife and children in grand imagined worlds and quiet, calm nights doing our traditions. My wife’s imagination is vivid and wonderful. I can’t wait to see where she takes us all.

There is a forest in your mind,
you traverse it with your friends.
Some real, more imagined.
Up you go and see it’s expanse,
green as far as you can see.
There are glades of bluebells,
old logs teeming with life.
You build a fort among them,
as the stories tell themselves.
You are so many people,
and where you are is so many places.
You set fires after dark, some warm you,
others you fight to keep from spreading.
Most nights are beautiful with the stars,
other nights you cannot see them,
when you daren’t look up.
One day someone joins you,
when its time to take down the sticks.
In their place you lay bricks.
It is a sweet place, still among the bluebells.
You go the forest together every day,
the entire woodland is new now.
You go up and look again and it stretches further,
further than you recall.
You should tend it well, but remember,
it isn’t a garden. It’s a forest.
It is beautiful in the glade
of bluebells.
I hope to take you there one day
and I dream of the forest
you’ll bring with you.