A poem for my father in law

Poem for Derek Beazley. 16/7/24

 

Ten years on

You are remembered,

Cherished memories.

Perhaps ethereal ?

Substance, somehow , immaterial.

Yet,

Your cairn still stands solid,

The view sweeping Nevern, Newport Bay and into the great blue yonder.

The gorse whispering,

Catapulting

Honey dripping scents

Across mudded marsh,

Rocks streaked and grey,

And heather

Impervious to grazing

Imperious with weather.

Ever the day,

The green backed mountain

Bowling skywards away.

 

The sea stumbling over Cat Rock

Cat calling gulls

Wind wards sailing.

Larks rising in harmony,

Carningli too,

Cloud ridden and proud.

The ghosts

Iron aged

Must have gazed in wonder

When you emerged

Uphill riding

November misted

Your dogs, ponies

Unerring horse sense,

Picking your way along the paths

The bridle way swarthed and steep.

And now?

No more miles for you

” Before you sleep, before you sleep.”

 

Sometime farmer, gardener

Mountain man and guide,

Hotelier, meeter, greeter

So much more beside.

Husband, companion,

Fond father with the Laconic film star drawl.

Startling grandchildren by

Jumping

Wolf like

From behind the wall.

You were Everyman

Welcome friend

And “Speed the parting guest”

Now departed, yes

But ever shining steady

Amidst

The brightest

And

Amongst the very best.


BIRTHDAY GREETINGS :A poem written by my father – around the time of my birth.

My parents parted when I was very young and I never got to know my father, although I am glad to be able to say that I have been privileged to have been brought up and nurtured by the most wonderful family and have always been (and continue to be !!) spoiled for love.

I like this poem very much, and as it was my birthday recently, I thought I would share it.

Sometimes
to tell our thanks is to whisper
In the teeth of hurricanes.

As when the mountain flower,
Simple in her wildly morning state,
Assumes false dignity
In the sculptured prism of a vase:
Or the proud beast
Cage-dragged,
Shuffles off his best majesty-
Such then am I,
When I would make but minute mention of your worth.

For in the furnace, your worth
Grows mightier than just,
And I, as wordly chanceless
As a mute.