This was a poem I wrote for my Dad at his memorial service. He died in September 2022, aged 89.

He came from the land
You’d think he’d been born
With a spade in his hand

Or with clod-hopper boots
Guarding baby soft toes
And a farmer’s flat cap
Throwing shade on his nose

He grew in the land
The country life etched
On his heart like a brand

And the Derbyshire sod
Was his patch and his pitch
Where a football mad lad
Dreamed he might just get rich

He managed to land
A Lancashire lass
Put a ring on her hand

And they set up a home
And they brought up a clan
Just one boy, then one girl
Then one not in the plan

The kids grew and they flew
Then a cruel wind blew through
The lass had a mass
And it ripped them in two.
And he grieved and he sighed
That his red rose had died
Until into his night
Came a new rose, in white

He bought up some land
In a French foreign field
It was nothing too grand

But his country heart stirred
As he worked every hour
Power tools felling trees
Falling trees felling power

He came in to land
With spluttering lungs
And struggling to stand

His body kaput
With the fading of light
As the evenings drew in
On that September night

Now he’s gone to a land
Which is really ‘très grande’
There’s “strong hot tea, no sugar, not too much milk please” on demand

Where the angels all sing
“Where oh death is your sting?”

And his baritone voice
Joins that heavenly choir.
So it’s not goodbye dad,
It is just au revoir.