William Matthew him, Matthew William me. Something else of his,

these hand-me-down names: Helmet of Resolution, Gift of God.

Between us we have blessed some beds and I've his cheek.

I'm Matt, not to be Sunday-faced but work-a-day;

the William's in the wardrobe, with that last sports jacket

he bought for ‘walking out’. I'm his joke against Officialdom,

Scouse effrontery in front of Births, Marriages and Deaths.

Declaring me unwelcome Matt.

Always Bill at work and Matt at home, he biked between two kinds

of competence – bosun, foreman-rigger, real good skin

inching great ocean-going liners in to Canada Dock,

Reina del Pacifico, Reina del Mar, mate of Pongo, Lars,

Billy Molloy, and the cackhanded lover

barge-booting home to me and my mother.

I've had it three ways this name: Mattie – cubscout, choirboy,

grannies’ lad, who lived in books, in cinemas, in church;

then Matthew, O-levelled, A-levelled, Hons-degree'd,

the all-his-own first-bits-of-scribbling poet;

and the Matt I've tried to be at home in since he died.