I’ve never been much of a poet, though have dabbled occasionally and I like to read it. There is obviously a small back catalogue of songs and a forthcoming one too if I get my finger out, but they are most definitely lyrics and not poems by a long shot. But then my dad is on the cusp of publishing his first book of poetry which is mental to think, and that in the intro to the book he says he never wrote one until he was 47. Or maybe it was 49, I can’t remember but it is still older than I am now. Slightly.
It just shows that even when your 75, seeds that you have put down over thirty years before can still reap its rewards. This is incredibly cool and I am very pleased and proud of him. There’s that word again. ‘Pride’. It’s cropped up as a result of this past weekend. Pride in relating to others for sure, but still it’s an odd feeling for me, here, now. Proud in my dad for what he’s achieved with the statue, the books (three volumes of Tales from the East Neuk thus far), and the collective he’s amassed. Proud of my wife for the way she raises our family, yet works like there’s no tomorrow. Proud of my children for challenging themselves and being who they are. Proud of me too? Pride. We’re doing good.