My Dad’s Voice

It is 6 years since Dad passed away, and it’s taken that long to pull this together for and about him.  Every child has a unique relationship with a parent, however many children that parent has. 

I do not speak for all his children, hence the title … 

My Dad’s Voice

Was brisk and bright and busy,

I could hear the RAF Warrant Officer

He was before I could remember,

And the country postman

He was for most of my childhood,

When he saw his role as serving his community

As he had served his country.

Not only delivering mail on his round

But also accepting mail from dwellings too far from a post box,

Bringing newspapers to remote or housebound households,

Learning first aid so he could help if he was first on scene

And occasionally, illegally,

Delivering a tardy child down the farm lane to the main road to catch the school bus,

.

And in our village …

A church stalwart,

Treasurer of the Reading Rooms,

Always involved in village events

For as long as health allowed,

Every year selling as many poppies

As you’d find in a field in France.

He found his relaxation in fishing for trout and salmon

In the river valley he grew up in and returned to.

Trudging “down the river” in waders

And home again in dusty summer sunsets.

Sometimes a daughter would walk out and meet him -

“Tell me the time without looking at your watch” -

A memory of us singing “Show me the way to go home”

Crossing a field full of dairy cows at dusk

Springs tears he would hate to have caused.

Chin up girl.

And at home ?

The quiet, solid centre of gravity,

The anchor we could all rely on,

For far longer that was absolutely necessary.

He loved words and wit and puns,

His children’s chat and laughter,

Us and our mother –

Though not necessarily in that order.