a poem by ROY Douglas KNEALE, UK

It’s true, as a lad, he never could come to grips
With the need for his Dad to travel to earn a crust;
He always dreaded him going on those “business trips”,
Even though “I’ll be home soon” were words that he grew to trust.
From boy to youth and on into manhood he grew;
The years, with their months, days and weeks, went on rolling by:
His Daddy retired and grew old, as most folk do,
And “home” was a castle they shared through days both wet and dry.

Their roles had reversed; the son travelled far and wide,
But “home” never changed from the one he shared with his dad:
Made of ‘manly stuff’, the son was not one who cried,
Until Time robbed two buddies of all the good times they’d had.
Now, copious tears he wept – lying on his bed
As daylight succumbed to the onset of twilight’s “gloam”;
He just couldn’t take the words the Pastor had said
About - “a last journey” – and not ever coming back home.

[A semi-fictional narrative poem. R.D.K. October 2012.]

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