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The Secret
He was known for being tough,
would stand no nonsense,
fair enough.
Don't be soft,
he'd often say,
stand up for yourself,
never run away.
Show no fear,
nor shed a tear,
be a man,
not a wimp my son.
Saw active service,
during the war,
badly wounded on D-Day,
as he waded ashore.
Treated it as if a joke,
walked with a limp,
but never spoke,
of the pain he felt.
There were tears in his eyes,
as he clutched my hand,
as he lay there dying,
this hard-drinking man,
who was scared of nothing,
and acted so gruff,
spoke softly and sincerely,
of the secret he'd kept,
all his life.
About the day,
when as a child,
in the woods near his home,
such a marvellous sight,
he'd seen,
a wonder to behold.
They were beautiful son,
he said.
No more than two inches tall,
with hair of silver and gold,
that shone in the morning sun.
On gossamer wings,
so delicate,
they quickly flew about,
and landed on my outstretched hand,
and whispered in my ear.
They made me make a promise,
which I've kept for eighty years,
that I'd never tell a living soul,
about meeting the fairy-folk.
It was truly beautiful son,
he said.
Then with a smile on his lips,
he was gone.
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