An old battered suitcase

An old battered suitcase;
small, brown; corners softened,
clips rusted.

A leather belt; same colour
same condition! Buckled
around it.

I remember watching him
as he walked away,
looking back.

One hand waving as leaves fell.
The other holding the case;
Mum crying!

He would return for Christmas;
presents from England,
in brown paper!

He worked across the sea,
he told me; another country;
a builder!

Life was his only educator,
a life of hard work, his lessons;
well learned!

Some called him an Irish Navvy
but I only ever knew him
as Dad.