At a  remembrance service this morning I was reminded of my father.

Here is a poem

Dad

White hair, wrinkled face and slight smile

All his life spread among those furrowed lines

Ploughed into his face by the stress and struggle

To understand the question of why this or that

Mostly of sorrow and anger but some of joy.

He never spoke about his war experiences

I had to find out from other people.

How he had left his new born son to go and fight

Or of the torpedo that dumped him in the sea

Losing the gun he had been trained to fire.

When he was rescued and back on dry land

They had found his team another gun.

They dragged  that gun through the desert sands

And up the spine of Italy into battle after battle.

Along the way, one by one, he lost his friends.

Then one day in a field there had been a bang

And he was left alone fighting a tank with a rifle.

They gave him a medal for that.

But they did not see him after he returned home

Helplessly moaning while twisting and turning in bed

The sheets soaking wet and he weak as a baby.

He came home to the brave new world but no jobs.

He learnt about the dole and the search for work

To paint liners during the winter and buildings in summer

And out of work in the spring and autumn.

No luxuries, no holidays but mum and dad managed.

Of course there was always the football to cheer you up

Though supporting Southampton was no easy ride

But we laughed and cheered together at the matches.

He was proud of his children and their education

Watching their progress with mild bewilderment.

Drink to your memories Dad and reflect

That life was not all bad but could be fun.