Me Dad
Didn't make old bones, me dad,
Taken from us far too young
Barely reached his sixties when
He was killed by Farmers’ Lung.
Too many dusty threshing days,
Noxious fumes dipping sheep,
He seemed to live a life
Just to eat, work and sleep.
A farm labourer which made
Him a man of many skills,
No time for a doctor’s visit,
No time for potions and pills.
Loved greenhouse and garden
But he loved even more
Lonely walks across the fields
Carrying a loaded twelve bore.
Not a sportsman shooter,
No, everything he shot
Very gratefully accepted
Into the family cooking pot.
A man of quiet wisdom who
Set me standards to live by
And most importantly showed.
A man at times is allowed to cry.
We never really did talk much
Never did have much to say
Sitting watching the old TV
In our quiet companionable way.
He looks back at me in the mirror,
As I look back at him with pride
So glad I could be with him
At his side the day he died.
I sat there with quiet pride
For I really hadn't suspected
That my dad had been
So very well respected.
The church was packed
On his funeral day
Most of the village came to
Quietly send him on his way.
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