The Father

The Father

In the quiet of the afternoon when the light drifts soft through the blinds,
there stands a man of stalwart grace – a sturdy oak whose roots run deep in the soil of our home.
His hands, rough with the rhythm of days, are still gentle when droppin’ a bedtime story into a child’s wide‑eyed world.
He is the keeper of the kettle’s steam and the comfort of a hand that steadies a wobbling teacup.

The Father's laughter rings clear in the hall, a timbre that sounds like the chime of a brass band at dusk.
He wields trade‑wrenches and also whispered advice, trading tools for tales of courage in the dark.
His voice is a steady harbour, where wandering thoughts anchor, and the weight of the world feels lighter, like a bag of crisps left half‑eaten by the window seat.

In a world that often louds with buzz and glare, he smiles with a quiet, patient spirit,
reminding us that true strength lies not in shouting, but in the steady hand that mends a broken toy,
the daily scratch from a childhood scare vanished by a quick apology and a hug wrapped tight.

The Father, with his warm mugs of tea and generous shares of jam,
carries in his ribcage a world of love that never quite fades.
He is the song that starts with “Old Man,” the brass band that never quits,
the keeper of our stories, the quiet hero we always remember at dusk.