The name said “Francis Wilson Nesbitt”

And it came as quite a shock

That I never even knew his name

You see, I’d always called him Jock,

Well that’s the way he’d introduced himself

The first time that we met

Feeding ducks along the river

In a park in Somerset,

He was already in his seventies

And ailing even then

But we seemed to get alone so well

Soon becoming friends,

And though a private man he’d tell me

Now and then about his life

From his often sickly childhood

To the death of his beloved wife,

He was never in the army

Nor the police or fire brigade

He’d never won a medal

Or led the big parade,

He was a quite kind of person

That kept mostly to himself

And he took his final peaceful breath

One chilly August twelfth,

His life had not been easy

He’d seen depression and hard times

But kept a jovial attitude

And a pleasant frame of mind,

Although his joints had given trouble

Since his fifty second year

And the rheumatism in his hips

Often brought him close to tears,

But he seldom spoke about it

He was not one to complain

Too stubborn or pig-headed

To even use a Zimmer frame,

Let alone allowing home help

Or accepting meals on wheels

“It’ll be a cold day in Hell”, he’d say

When I can’t make my own meals,

Though you could see how much he struggled

Just walking down the street

And my heart would go out to him

Every time that we should meet,

Because he didn’t have much family

Just a son as I recall

That didn’t visit often

If he ever did at all,

But his dad was still proud of him

And the things that he’d achieved

He was a builder on the west coast

Of Scotland I believe,

Well you could see old Jock was lonely

Though he was not the kind to say

So I’d sometimes make excuses

To make sure he was ok,

You know, like say I was just passing

Although it wasn’t really true

And he’d act like he believed me

Although I think he really knew,

And we’d sit and watch old movies

John Wayne and Errol Flynn

And he’d point sometimes at some big star

And say, “I wish that I’d been him”

But I am not the kind of man

That they make heroes from

And I haven’t led the kind of life

That they base films upon,

But if you’d seen the way he’d battled

Infirmity and age

I think like me, you’d disagree

About from what hero’s are made,

Ok he never fought the Bolsheviks

The Japanese or Hun

And he never led a bayonet charge

Against opposing guns,

But his whole life had been a battlefield

Since the first time he drew breath

And he fought each day courageously

Until the day he met his death,

But they’re not giving medals out

For courage such as his

But if his were not heroics

Well tell me then, what is?

By S.E.Ralph

15-1-2012