My Father Always Said

"There is a place for everything", my father always said,
And everything was in its place, before he went to bed.
Every night at six, he locked his tools in the old wood shed,
Knelt and offered up his prayers, before laying down his head.

He believed in a king or queen on England's golden throne,
Loved the hilly fields in which he often ached to roam.
Went climbing up Ben Nevis at a slow and steady pace,
Came striding back again with triumph written on his face.

My father was a Scottish lad with hair of flaming red,
His mother was an English girl, who tucked him into bed.
She told him tales of hearty Britain; mysteries and woe,
Her neat and tidy ways on him, she did lovingly bestow.

He travelled far and wide; low dale to lofty mountain high,
But always for this tiny isle his aching heart did sigh.
His adventures found him Nessie in Scotland's deepest loch,
At Stonehenge, his heart overflowed with love for Britain's rock.

Dark days as Europe's armies fell beneath an iron fist,
But Britain stood up firm and strong, united to resist.
My father joined them, head held high, standing proud and tall,
Under hail of shells and gunfire, yet never did he fall.

Back at home, he still believed in a place for everything,
The cup sat on the shelf; the key hung by a tattered string,
Everything was in its place as the fire warmed the cat,
His cardy on the coat stand next to walking stick and hat.

"There is a place for everything", my father always said,
And on that cold and sunny morn that found him sadly dead,
I could not help but hope and pray that he would somehow find,
A fitting, peaceful place, for his quiet and tidy mind.