From Joan Wilson

I make no apologies for repeating my poem here about my father, RODDY.

“RODDY”

Roddy – that’s what they called him

From birth, right to his grave.

He was six foot six inches tall

So big and strong and brave.

He was one of the finest fathers

And he loved us all so much.

He always had time for others

And he had that special touch.

He tickled our toes in the morning

Waking us to a brand new day,

With fruit from his own garden

“Come and get it my darlings,” he’d say.

He was such a good provider,

He always farmed his land.

Our cupboards were never empty

All stocked by his very own hand.

He taught us from early childhood

To respect others above ourselves,

To cherish what God had given us

Our freedom to enjoy our wealth.

And wealth didn’t mean money

For there was little of that.

It was our sunshine, sand and warm blue sea,

All ours to enjoy, and it was totally free.

He swam with us off the iron shore

I tell you, we enjoyed it all so much.

Swimming and diving with our father

In those days we were never lost touch.

“Work hard and plan your day.”

Was his fatherly and friendly advice.

“Hard work never kill nobody

Take a look at me – Inspector Roddy.”

He was serious but also humorous

And he loved to chat awhile

With friends under our plum tree

And a cup of fresh coffee.