A Lakeland meadow, thick with life
And sunlight; big old dog lies down.
Buzzing flies grow loud and larger,
Fill his senses as the sun, field
And flowers recede .....

"Charlie! Charlie!" Metallic echoes,
Hands on my head and neck,
Tears on my pelt, so tired, so tired .....
Sleep now in this summer meadow .....
Where I want to be ..... with my Dad .....
My last walk in the sun ..... dark now ..... sleep.

A great noise has gone out of the world.
A great rushing, roaring wave is still.
A flapping, snapping, tethered flag is furled.
A runaway cart has reached the foot of the hill.

Great rumbustious, raging force, you
Crashed through life, flamboyant, vibrant,
Swept all before you, thundering through,
You leave a world made suddenly silent.

But through that silence, we see and hear,
Your laugh and your smile from ear to ear.
We yet recall outrageous schemes,
And boundless, optimistic dreams.

Fantasy milkman, amateur boiler man,
Jobs and careers, situations and scenes.
All movement and change and then "Morrisson" transit-van,
Irrepressible, generous, mad mustard-keen!

Comedian you were, in spades for sure.
Chameleon indeed in shades dazzling mad.
Your eccentric fashions touched caricature,
You really were a most unusual Dad.

You left so soon, so sudden, things still to do.
Your passing interrupted schemes you had in hand.
Death, like Lennon's life, it happens too,
While we're all busy making other plans.

Such sad reflection, introspection, was never really you.
Your toothy, friendly face was better suited to your smile.
Those mobile ears and one raised brow were made for laughter too,
These are the things we will remember, in a little while.

You stood for all, a granite Lakeland fell.
You stood for love, your loved-ones, friends and staff.
You stood for decency, you lived your life so well.
You stood for reason, joy, for all who love to laugh.

Your fortitude, your stoic will, your strength.
Impregnable redoubt battalions raged against in vain,
All fell before your steady line and length,
Despatched to the pavilion as you laughed, and lived again.

Your modesty disguised your formidable mind.
Your thick white hair, your twinkling eyes, so green and kind.
"A Fine Gentleman" your humour, teasing gently.
Ham, egg and chips, a lager, then ..... The Horn of Plenty!

Then, when the time was right, the balance over-tipped,
You faded, fighting fiercely, cleared your desk and slipped
Away, and left us, proud for having known you, yet we wept,
For having lost you ..... and then ..... you woke again, said your farewells
And slept.

I remember a man,
Whose huge heart and hands
Were Africa, its sun, red dust,
Forests and streams,
Its passion, excitement, its primaeval lust
Were there in his thews.
I remember a man,
So strong, so hard to lose.

I remember a man,
Whose great, rumbling voice
Would hold a room, telling such tales:
Silent Valley
In Yemen, cool damp dawn, tribesmen's jezzails
Exacting their dues.
I remember a man
So big, so hard to lose.

I remember a man,
Who carved from the bush
A paradise, a hut, a stream,
An Innisfree
Called Kanya, he built my boyhood dream.
And he is my muse.
I remember a man,
So kind, so hard to lose.

I remember a man,
Who knew this world so well,
Knew how it was, like his machines,
Knew how it worked
And could fix it, knew of life and what it means,
Which path to choose.
I remember a man
So wise, so hard to lose.

I remember a man,
Who piled Kano's wealth
In pyramids, changed the skyline
With golden oil,
Enriched the lives of many, including mine.
Unfillable shoes.
I remember a man,
So good, so hard to lose.

I remember a man,
A massive, mighty
Marvellous man, resourceful man
For all seasons.
My memory holds him in sunset's haze and
Harmattan's soft hues.
I remember a man
So vast, so hard to lose.

The only God I had has died today.
Was born like all of us,
And now returns to clay;
He walked among us, stood where I have stood.
If such a man has lived,
He's all I need of God.

My eyes have seen, I heard the things he said.
But now he's nowhere, not asleep, just dead.
The things he did when young and then when old,
These cannot die, though he is dead and cold.
Now such a man has lived,
We need no paradise foretold.

We stand in awe of all they gave, their youth, their lives, their blood.
We glorify their selfless acts, their masque of death and mud,
And each year we remember them in silence and in song,
And each year specious argument, will tell us we are wrong;
But whatever we believe today, our dignified debate,
Or elegant dissent, or cant, for them comes too damned late.

For whatever side you sit, remember, they were slain,
And cry never and cry never and cry never! Not again.

Their courage and their sacrifice, their glory and their fears,
Their grief, their pain, their agony, their families’ bitter tears.
The hell on earth we made for them, the horrors that they saw,
The promises we made to them, this ‘war to end all wars’;
We must remember all, not one fragment can be lost,
Remember that however just, war bears a frightful cost.

For whatever side you sit, remember, they were slain,
And cry never and cry never and cry never! Not again.

Whether we remember, to keep the truth alive,
Or whether we remember, the truth and hopes that died,
And whether we remember their sacrifice and pain,
Or whether we remember, the reasons they were slain;
Remember all we must, on whatever truth we stand,
If we forget, they die again, and this time by our hand.

For whatever side you sit, remember, they were slain,
And cry never and cry never and cry never! Not again.

I think I'm right in saying for a man of Robert's kind,
A poem 'In Memoriam', would never cross his mind;
I'm not convinced my cousin Bob, cared much for finer art,
And I'm pretty sure high literature but rarely moved his heart.
But he'd appreciate if I told it straight, as the landlord calls time and he shuts,
Bob's true delight was a cuss-strewn fight with an old Massey Ferguson's guts;
A week-long war with a sick Renault 4 or a scrap with a crap MGB,
Or the role of vet to my Mum's Chevette as it scraped through its last MOT.

I should also state here he was fond of his beer of an evening and Sunday lunch too,
And the folk at The Plough, if pressed, might allow, he might sometimes sink more than a few.
But don't get the idea that his motors and beer were all that made Bob who he was,
With his keen observation and gruff toleration there was so much more to him because;
He was witty and wry, he was funny and dry and he loved a good gossip and joke,
He was honest and kind with a sharp, clever mind and for me just a really good bloke,
Now for friends and relations all festive occasions, will be missing an integral part,
But I think I can say, though we miss him today, Bob will always be here in our hearts.