My Dad was brought up to believe, that what gave pleasure, was a sin.
There was’nt too much fear of that, with the plight that he was in.
He left school to earn his keep, at only nine years old.
He worked in fields, with deep cracked hands, ill clad in rain and cold.
Then he learned his trade as blacksmith, in a Rhondda Valley mine.
He met my Mum, and it looked as if, the future would be fine.
They married, and the sun broke through, the mist of poverty.
But soon the clouds of war made sure, no blissful life there'd be.
Dad served his country on the Somme, with a stretcher not a gun.
He helped the surgeons treat the wounds, that German shells had done.
Without the help of gas or drugs, to alleviate the pain,
Knowing they might either die, or never walk again.
Yesterday I found a paper, I'd never seen before.
Which states he served with honour, until disabled in the war.
He came home to his wife and son, then four years of age.
And went back to the colliery, to earn a meagre wage.
Within twelve months, another son, arrived upon the scene.
The outlook seemed quite pleasant, as it before the war had been.
Then after nineteen twenty three, the year that I was born,
With trade disputes, and constant strikes, their hopes became forlorn.
In despair, and desperation, to find security,
We moved from Wales and mountains, to Harwich and the sea.
Dad spent long months in hospital, throughout the next few years.
With hardship and the Second War, there was ample cause for tears.
In fact with the return of war, my fathers health improved.
In spite of being rationed, they could afford to buy more food.
They were more settled, and well nourished, than they had been for years.
They lost their all, in East Coast floods, without a show of tears.
They'd learned to cope with life, whatever pain it gave.
Though they were never wealthy, they proved that they were brave.
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