You may argue you’ve suffered enough during the COVID lockdown without yours truly starting to subject you to a selection of the eighty or so poems I penned in 2017. Although, not exclusively relating to the old man, this prose written during the last few months of my father’s life in 2017.

A dreadful landscape encompassing both his moribund state, as well as post his passing. The inaugural occasion in my life where I got to experience true grief. A melancholy which, through numerous triggers to his memory, will never be extinguished.

The following poetic tribute penned a few months before he left us. My words intended to thank him for everything he stood for, and had bestowed upon the familial unit for many decades.

Woodhouse Man

Woodhouse man
Brick house foundations bestowed upon brood
Deterring villainous wolf attentions
Encouraging predator to seek less secure footings.

Woodhouse man
Proud gentleman of white rose burgh
Undemonstrative, periphery your comfort zone
Unperturbed at allowing the less worthy centre stage.

Woodhouse man
In a shithouse world
Your gifts greater than the guinea or sovereign
Humanity, security, caring and selflessness thine riches bestowed.

Woodhouse man
No more undervalue thine contribution
Or decry your altruistic penchant
Instead, listen to benefactors of thy self-sacrifice.

Woodhouse man
Coal house always replenished to warm thy clan
Sustenance and shelter remits unconditional
Those shouting louder, rant with less erudition.

Woodhouse man
Providing legacy of pure selflessness
In portal of misguided self-entitlement
Provision for brood thy unquestioning boon.

Woodhouse man
Thine discomfort in ailment
Felt emotionally analogous by distressed brood
Convalesce swiftly beautiful Woodhouse man.