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With fingers worn and weary.

With fingers worn and weary trying hard to turn a screw

Remembering days beside my father learning what to do

Sometimes blood would appear as drops upon the floor

It wasn’t me that had been injured and no I was not sore

He wouldn’t remember doing it and I thought he was mad

How could you not know that your bleeding gee old age is sad

He stepped back from the bench checking hands and fingers

The fresh smell of that dripping blood in my mind it still lingers

One day you will be standing here with a grown son of your own

It will be you that day that is bleeding from an injury unknown

I hope that you remember how you feel about this here today

You will know exactly what your son is thinking and about to say

I remember him saying that and I must have been about thirteen

I remember how old he looked and me I was young and really keen

Looking back now about that time I guess he was only thirty four

It’s strange to think I’ve lived past that age by twenty years or more

When he turned fifty we had a real big party for him at his place

His mates were old men with motorcycle weathered lines upon their face

He told me on that day old age is waking up a bit different every day

When something aches in your body that did not ache yesterday

With fingers worn and weary I’ve stood many times now in his shoes

I remember arguing with him a lot and his very old fashioned views

The circle of life is such a great equalizer for the arrogance of youth

He was just doing the best that he could and that’s the bloody truth.

Copyright Poetry in Paradise 19/12/15 . Reg TM # 1028534


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