Finest of fathers, sometimes I reflect
upon your patient rectitude and gentle way,
your humble courtesy to all failed to eject
integrity, nor courage held at bay.
Your eyes revealed your mild soul, clean and kind,
your words were ever tolerant and fair.
The lowest place was yours, you stayed behind,
let others claw and elbow for your share.
You neither longed for wealth nor cared for fame,
your wage derived as streams poured from your brow,
you passed unseen - few ever knew your name
and when you died in agony, few cared how.
The memory of your meekness deems it odd
that your face looms each time I think of God.
Luky Whittle
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