"It`s Father`s Day this Sunday so let`s celebrate Dad!" said the Poet in Residence of Wolverhampton`s WCR FM which broadcasts on 101.8 FM and online.  

"My Dad used to run a newsagents in Leicester Street in Whitmore Reans when he came out of the Royal Air Force" said Ian Henery, Poet in Residence.  "As a special treat he used to take us to the paddling pool in Tettenhall and I am pleased to see that it has been restored by Wolverhampton City Council.  This means that other fathers can take their kids just like my Dad took me when I was a child".  

Father`s Day is the celebration of fathers in the UK and many other parts of the world.  It is a special day to show your Father, Stepfather or other male relative or friend who cares about you just how much you love him.  

  "Love is stronger than death" said Ian Henery "and love never dies.  Just because your Father has passed doesn`t mean that you can`t celebrate their memory and legacy on Father`s Day.  If you have a faith you will know that death isn`t final and we will see our loved ones again.  It`s why having a faith helps.  I know that my Father lives on and walks beside me everyday."
   

 



                                                     My Father`s Hands     

                                                         My Father`s hands                                                       Large as saucepans;                                                       Battered like blades,                                                       Worn like old spades,                                                       My Father`s hands.  

                                                      My Father`s hands,                                                       Weathered like land;                                                       Engrained with dirt                                                       Ignoring hurt.

My Father`s hands.         

  Are eyes the mirrors of the soul?                                       

  My Father`s hands looked like a mole`s,                                         Battered and calloused from his work                                     

    And hard graft, he would never shirk.                                    

     His hands looked like his life`s roadmap,                                         Where truth is revealed and unwrapped                                         And he laboured, all of his days,                                         God his compass on the highway.  

                                        From the coalfields to Royal  Air Force,                                         A uniform changed his life`s course                                         Mining the thick Durham coal seams                                         And learned to fly with lofty dreams.                                         My Father loved aircraft engines,                                         A science without an ending.                                         Hands in oil, permanently engrained,                                         Dirt in his skin, forever stained.  

                                                  My Father`s hands                                                   Finger nails short,                                                   Vanity nought,                                                   No polish bought,                                                   My Father`s hands.

                                                   My Father`s hands                                                  Gripped like a vice,                                                  Screws pulled and prised                                                  In snow and ice,                                                  My Father`s hands.  

                                        My Father loved God and believed                                         His hands unworthy to receive                                         In church, the Holy Communion,                                         Jesus, the Body of God`s Son.                                         At alter rail, bread on his tongue,                                         Worn hands held down, those hands so strong.                                         Air craft engines replaced by cars,                                         His own repairs to beer and bars.  

                                        A big man, he did tug of war:                                         The anchor, his hands were rubbed raw.                                          He also boxed, his hands weapons                                          And I was proud to be his son.                                          His hands provided, they supplied,                                          Not once did they tan my backside.                                          I could be silenced with  a stare,                                          A child looking at a big bear.  

                                                My Father`s hands                                                 Full of old oil,                                                 Engines, he`d toil,                                                 Dug into soil,                                                 My Father`s hands.  

                                                My Father`s hands                                                 Scarred, bruised and worn,                                                 From dusk to dawn                                                 As soon as born,                                                 My Father`s hands.  

                                    A scout leader, magic with knots,                                     Hands working rope, never forgot.                                     Big hands planting seeds in the ground,                                     Loving his garden all year round.                                     Roses, holly hocks and fruit trees,                                     Refuge from the world, sanctuary.                                     I watched my Father`s hands bring life,.                                     A garden in a world of strife.  

                                    My Father`s hands, clasped on his chest                                     In his coffin, at home of rest.                                     Scout badge in his left, in his right                                     Grandchildren`s cross made by candlelight.                                      My Father lying there, in state,                                     Bound for Heaven and Pearly Gates.                                      His hands and heart, bigger than mine                                     With the angels in the divine.  

                                                    My Father`s hands                                                     Tough as old boots,                                                      Thistles by roots,                                                      Nettles by shoots,                                                     My Father`s hands.  

                                    Still his hands, bigger than mine  

                                                    My Father`s hands                                                     Large as saucepans,                                                     Battered like blades,                                                     Worn like old spades,                                                     My Father`s hands  

                                    With the angels in the divine  

                                                    My Father`s hands                                                     Bigger than mine,                                                     End of the line,                                                     My Father`s hands.                  

   Ian Henery