My Father

by

John Connaughton

In a green and open setting on a cool bright rustic day
I see him toil with reason in an age old natural way
He wipes the glistening sweat drops that form upon his brow
And slices up the cold brown earth by his steering of the plough.

The labour long and tiring, an endless path of pain
Drenched with summer sunlight rays and biting winter rain
No words of resignation, just a knowledge of the truths
And a lifetime love thats buried deep within his rural roots.

His manner unassuming with some distance from the crowd
Yet striking when the cause need be to voice his thoughts aloud
A calm and real acceptance of the cards being dealt his way
The shrewdness of his deft reply, a measured timely play.

Theres pleasing warmth within his smile, sharpness in his wit
Caring in his family role for so the shoe does fit
With knowledge that belies his years both general and defined
For when its due in a crossword view or a tabled state of mind.

I see him as my father and I see him as my friend
I know hell always be there for on him I can depend
Those helping hands, that patient ear, the reassuring voice
A trouble shared, a problem dared or a humbled sacrifice.

In a warm and homestead setting on a cool dark summers night
I see him thumb through pages by the teasing turf firelight
Silent and contented in a world thats all his own
Throwing a watchful eye on the news thats freshly grown.

NEXT?
Why don't you look at In the Age of Doctor Spock
by: Joyce Hemsley
from: Sunderland, England, UK

To visit all of John Connaughton's poems, click HERE

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