A Man Of His Time Poem by Elaine Battersby

A Man Of His Time



He was a man of his time, his class, a worker.
My father.
As I child, he told us of his war days.
And my brother and I watched and listened,
Mesmerised, by his words, his actions,
He was our hero.

Wearily, each day, he started his routine,
A piece of toast, a flask of tea
A sandwich, for his lunch.
Then, with rucksack on his back,
He started his trek to work.

Back bent, he laboured in a cold and draughty shed,
His hand red, and fingers stiff, with the repetitive work.
Of fitting aircraft.
We thought that he was clever, working on aeroplanes
For him, it was his work, his responsibility, to feed is family.
It was like that then, a job for life, thats what you did.


He was alone a loner, with hidden depths.
Sometimes sad, sometimes happy with his lot.
He was from a time when men hid their feelings
Their core of being, their soul.
They had to play the game, follow the rules.

Looking back now I wish we had been closer.
I was the first born, a daughter.
Strong, spirited, restless.
But a girl.
Not the boy he longed for.

But silently he admired my strength,
My character, my spirit, my will.
He would talk about me to his workmates
Share my travel adventures and achievements.

He's dead now, but just before he went,
We made our connection,
Our peace.
He was able to tell me how he felt.
It meant a lot.


Elaine Battersby (Elaine B)
April 2012

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Elaine Battersby

Elaine Battersby

Preston, Lancashire.Lives in London
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