A WORTHY TYPE.

It’s not in churchly polished pews that character is hewn;
Nor in the cloistered confessional that refection takes its toll.
It’s at the burning forge of life, where no one is immune,
From the anguish of temtation thus laying bare his soul.

When the strident carefree youth, sets out to make his mark;
From this day on he’ll be adjudged by self and friends alike.
The challenges he tops or fails and every chance remark,
Will rest in virtual evidence, was he a worthy type?

Of all the folk that I have met, of every faith and rank,
There’s a man that I’ll remember until my final breath.
From Grandkids to the Bishop, they called him Pa or Frank.
The impact that he had on folk, will last beyond his death.

He was a true blue farming man, mighty hands like the vice.
Could strain a fence, milk a cow and till the soil with plow.
Through drought, flood and years a plush his labour did suffice,
To nurture family, his greatest prize, of that I can avow.

This humble man with sparkeling eye and comely, wistful grin;
With unpretentious decency and humour most contagious.
Showed us how to smile at life and build the strength within,
To be the best and recognise, that all of life is precious.

This man my friend, this son, the husband, Dad and Pa,
Will need no stone engraved in gold, to laud his name with hype.
His achievements stand for all to see, the family that they are.
This is your measure Frank my mate, you were a worthy type.

Pikey.