Henry and me

April 12, Napowrimo 2026. Today, we are challenged to write our own poem that recounts a memory of a beloved relative, and something they did that echoes through our thoughts today.
Henry Parker is my one of my Great, Great, Great Grandfathers. He was the last Station Master at Watchet station in Somerset before the working line closed. He was the Secretary of Court of his local branch of the Ancient Order of Foresters and spent much of his time raising funds to support people off work through sickness when there was not state benefits to fall back on.

I didn’t meet Henry until long after he died,
That is, if you can meet someone though six foot of soil, and
A century of seasons passing in the blink of a DNA eye,
And still feel a living connection.

Henry begat Frank who begat Arthur who begat John who begat Roy,
Who I called dad.
He lived for 67 Victorian years and
Bore the trademarks of that era with pride.

His lambchop sideburns marked him out in a crowd,
The Station Master’s wescut he wore to work,
Was adorned by his, no doubt, perfect time-keeping
Fob and chain that swung in an arc from pocket to pin.

It was the cut of his jib,
Nor is premature beatnik fashion sense
That attracted me to Henry, no,
It was something far more valuable.

Henry left me wondering, he bequeathed me questions.
Was he the root of my sense of social justice?
Did his seed of dedication to support the less fortunate
Bloom in my DNA five generations on?

That sense of duty feels natural to me,
But I can scour the branches of my tree in vain,
There is no sign of bud or blossom let alone fruit,
This sense of normality has no other foundation.

Henry is one of 32 people living then,
Who help make me who I am now.
I’ll never know if it was his gift that sits within me,
But it makes me feel good to think it is.