Somewhere, set free from pain, he lies
Beneath the grey, indifferent skies
A husband, brother, son and friend:
My father till the bitter end!
His watch, his ring, his car, his gold,
His suits, his shirts: they’ve all been sold
His garden’s grown, but gone to seeds
His flowers wilt, waylaid with weeds
Someday, when he has long been dust
And garden tools have turned to rust
I’ll make myself re-find that place
Where I first saw my father’s face
And I will kiss that sacred ground
Where childhood’s peace was so profound
When I would watch him dig and plough
With bended back and beaded brow
Somehow, since Time’s a healing thing
I’ll wait, like bird with wounded wing
For years, till grief at last will yield
For father, in that far off field
Then I will pray a pilgrim’s prayer
Cast off my craven coat of care
Let unwept tears fall fast to free
This son of sorrow who was me.