On The Way Home.

by Nearlyman

A deliberate way. A lifetime gone of kind and gentle pace.
Yet even now, to ease my latter years the memory of him
quieter moments charm.

From out a garnered wealth fond thoughts come rising there
recalling warm emotions that in yesteryears were born,
illuminating dull days seen as difficult to bear
and warming, as the sunbeams are that light the dawn.

I still can feel the evening stubble of my father’s cheek,
on mine, as to his rough-clad shoulders tired I clung,
with arms around his neck , too drowsy then, too weak
to stay apace his stride, my legs too short and young.
.
Can feel the vigour of his steady way along the lane:
the rhythmic rise and fall in time with measured tread
on ground, I solitary, have to walk again,
along my way of life where surer step once led.

The lingering goodness too can feel from being close to meld
with one who, always there when e’er I reached to clasp
a hand did never make an angry move, but held
us all within a welcome-warm and ready grasp.

Though oft’ -
his shoulders bowed beneath the weight of vows he took.
to care. Despite the trammel of his days held fast
and owed no moral debt for asked, he ne’er forsook
nor hope belied but humbly stood to how his die was cast.

I then, a child, not knowing time would weary even his young
manly grace:
No longer young and on my homeward plod, I’m sure at times
I feel the comfort of his caring arm.