The finest sheets remained in shops, riches were not had.
In what we lacked in goods and gold were found in love by dad.
His voice was deep and baritone, he kept his east coast twang.
His songs of choice were those in which, the country boys had sang.
His life was simple, his hobbies few, his pleasures scant indeed.
Yet his love of words consumed his days, not a line he would not read.
But his greatest love, you can’t deny, no dictionary can describe.
Was not his love of book nor song, but devotion to his tribe.
Want to try your hand at poetry? Email me at poeticiapoems@gmail.com
Featured image credits to StockSnap from Pixabay
