Portrait of a Father

PORTRAIT OF A FATHER
For my father- Michael John Thorpe

In the year of Nineteen Forty One
When Hitler’s bombs rained thick.
A small town country boy was born,
Who we came to know as Mick.

A tricky time he must have had,
When parents die or disappear;
For any wee, small, young lad,
Close ones you hold so dear.

But sister siblings nearby would foster,
With love strong as Cotswold Oak.
To head down south from Gloucester,
To the city, the great big smoke.

From Minchinhampton toTottenham.
From ‘Dilly dumps’ to concrete.
To picture palaces by tram,
Crockett enacted in backstreet.

He sailed the merchant seas afar
At tender aged sixteen.
From Portsmouth to Panama-
Places one could only dream.

And tales of a high adventure trip,
Relayed throughout the years.
Of endless days spent onboard ship,
Perceived through tiny ears.

A return to green and pleasant shores;
A shiny Morris Minor.
Somewhere a girl sewed Pinafores,
Who’d seal his fate, and find her.

Chance breezed in ‘The Prince Of Wales’-
A dusky, doe eyed Miss.
Job done, the Universe exhales.
Leaving him, with the hope, of a kiss.

Some years flew by a kiss he got,
And a whole lot more:
A plan between her knees, a cot.
Was it more than he bargained for?

Three kids, a house, a tasty wife,
And now a Ford Cortina.
To carve out a sweet suburban life,
With climbing Bougainvillea.

He took us all for Coke’s,
In country pubs when young.
He knew the name of every bird,
Though not the song it sung.

And that Cortina would give him jip-
Taste hell, and yell obscene.
A Haynes repair manual, an auto grip
To fix that blessed dammed machine.

He liked long and silent walks, along the River Lea;
Curries with some bite.
Would name all the different kinds of tree.
Tell you a star from satellite.

But least of all he liked,
Perhaps the same like you and me:
Unauthorised bank overdraft charges,
Sly politicians on TV.

And those celebrities he did not know,
The kind who whine and bicker.
On some piss poor reality show,
For your licence fee- what a kicker.

Lest not forget ‘Robin’ his little chum;
His fine and feathered friend.
Whose pleasant chink caressed eardrum,
To alight, take flight, ascend.

He would have liked to say good-bye,
Shake hands with many friends,
Before that peculiar time drew nigh,
To sup ‘Old Speckled Hens’.

And if one thing one could take from this,
In life’s great pantomime.
Make hay. Be kind to one another.
While there is still time.