Quiet Man

He’s Blind

Quiet Man

Quiet the working man,
quiet the work he do,
Finding solace
in the rhythm of the hands.
Doing duty, family first,
working ever true;
Stolid man
you can depend
upon his moral stands.

A working man all his working life
Working in the mill,
Repetitious work but he was good at it
It paid well, he kept his family well.
In his own way, content,
Providing for his wife
And for his children five.
He is useful,
Therefore,
He is content.

Tensions trapped in duty’s wrap,
The mind did snap, control unwrap;
Muscles slack, machine untend,
Nothing will the losses mend.
Carried off, the worker cries
As the working spirit dies.

Gone now, the mill,
Gone the repetitious job.
Despair and age, Dementia,
All set in and brought him down.
No longer has he a name,
In his mind;
Forgotten is the wife of 40 years,
Forgotten children five.

He’s Blind

Fishing stream, drawing out the line, tying lures,
Quiet man, quiet loves, adding trout to family fare
Fly fishing, rhythmic job, one for the other cures.
Quiet man quiet fought the tension versus care.

He’s blind. He sits. He recalls his days of work.
Slowly those work-worn hands raise from upon his lap
And form the moves they made, the motions done at work.
Subconscious reaches in and salvation does it tap.

His family comes they talk to him, daily mourn his loss,
They feed his hunger to know himself as rhythmic move his hands,
They pray for him, he hums to them soft as forest moss;
Quiet man you can depend upon his moral stands.

O Spirits, cry! Honour him, upon his soul do tend,
Broken family left behind, work hard for them to mend.
Dedicated to Maurice.

CREDIT: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Flyfishing.jpg

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