BY DOMINIC WIGHTMAN

We walked hand in hand together to the coach – I wore my red school cap

You taught me how to fight; tackle hard and scrap

We celebrated triumphs; bound tight in every loss

Then I was ill and You stayed calm – trusting Jesus on the cross.

 

I should have died. You said a prayer. Then You died. Gone just like that.

 

Each day I sense You; face-palming my blunders – cheering when I soar

For Grandpa John the children pray – we all love You to the core

Not done yet, My Father. Wellie to be dished; tyrants to expose

I’ll await your extended hand again – at my time to repose