In 1963 my father became terminally ill. I like most people wanted to know. Why my father? He had worked 35 years infront of a furnace in a hard industry, he richly deserved his retirement but never saw it. I had only known him 16 years when he first became ill. I then thought of my sister Pauline who died when she was 12yrs old and only had him for such a short time. I thought of all of the things that I did have and wrote Be Thankful walking again on Swansea Bay late at night.
A blindmans world infront of me.
A grateful man whose senses are strong,
A stick alone guides him along.
He can't see the sea with it's waves breaking in their turns,
He can't see the flames from a fire as it burns.
He can't see the stars in the sky at night,
A grateful man yet he has no sight.
Be thankful.
I walk alone noise there is not,
A deafmans world with no pardon or what.
He cannot hear what is said,
He looks at ones lips upon ones head.
He can't hear the birds in the morn when they sing,
He can't hear the churchbells when they ring.
He assumes one speaks and looks where they were,
A grateful man yet he cannot hear.
Be thankful.
My tongue is still as I walk,
A dumbmans world for he cannot talk,
His language few understand,
A grateful man who talks by hand.
Good morning he cannot say,
Yet ungrateful millions say it everyday.
He cannot sing his favourite song,
He might just hum it as he goes along.
He does not sigh at the end of his working week,
He's a grateful man who does not speak.
Those that grumble are those that curse,
I tell them "Be thankful, be grateful there's plenty worse.
