The love that binds fathers and sons

image courtsey of Reckonings

Over on one of my favourite blogs (Notes on) Politics, Theory and Photography the author Jim Johnson has written a deeply personal piece about the loss of his son in a sporting accident. Jim's moving piece is a beautiful exemplar of the power of the father and son relationship and a cry to celebrate and cherish that relationship very day. Jim's piece is a powerful reminder and one I am grateful for.

My own son has been away from Perth for nearly 2 weeks on holiday and I feel his absence profoundly. But I am lucky. He will be back on the weekend.

On the day I read Jim's piece I was listening to the English folksinger, songwriter and guitarist Martin Simpson who has written two profound and beautiful songs about the father and son relationship.

The song One Day from his 2009 CD True Stories was written by Martin Simpson and jazz guitarist Martin Taylor. The song is about Martin Taylor's youngest son who died tragically young, and is based on a 3 line poem Martin Taylor wrote about his son. Taylor asked Martin Simpson to complete the song. It is a profound musical performance, described by one writer as "a song of such exposed pain" and "a poignant masterpiece" by another.

ONE DAY- by MARTIN SIMPSON

Well my heart is broken
for I loved you so dearly
you're my romany charl
my dear gypsy boy

But the life that we shared
it was gone in a moment
and with it all pleasure
and with it all joy

You rode a horse like a king
and you sang like an angel
but it bought you no peace
by night and by day

When sunlight burns cruel
and moonlight shines balefully
there would be nowhere to go
and no reason to stay

You rode a horse like a king
and I watched you so proudly
with my heart in my mouth
afraid you might fall
and when the fall came
there was no-one could catch you
no one could help you
no one at all

The twin oaks in the hedgerow
they grow strong from such sadness
drawn from the grave
of a lost gypsy child

and the leaves and the long grass
they whisper your name
my romany chavel
so near and so wild

One day I will hear hoofbeats
and not grieve for the rider
and the song you sing
will bring peace and not pain
and the fields where you rode
on your pushty ride
will bloom with the promise of laughter again

One day I will hear hoofbeats
and not grieve for the rider
and the song that you sing
will bring peace and not pain
and the fields that you ride on
on your own pushty ride
will bloom with the promise of laughter again

On his 2007 CD Prodigal Son Martin Simpson performs the song "Never Any Good", a moving tribute to his own father. Simpson's song tells the story of his father's life and of the gifts he gave his musician son.

NEVER ANY GOOD - Martin Simpson

You were never any good with money. You couldn't even hold a job,
Not steady enough for the office, not hard enough for the hod.
You'd rather be riding your Norton or going fishing with your split cane rod.
You were never any good with money. You couldn't even hold a job.

When your grammar school days were over, it was nineteen-seventeen,
And you did the right and proper thing. You were just eighteen.
You were never mentioned in dispatches. You never mentioned what you did or saw.
You were just another keen young man in the mud and stink of war.

You were never any good with money. You couldn't even hold a job,
Not steady enough for the office, not hard enough for the hod.
You'd rather be singing The Pirate King or fishing with your split cane rod.
You were never any good with money. You couldn't even hold a job.

You came home from the Great War with the pips of a captain's rank,
A German officer's Luger and no money in the bank.
Your family sent you down in the coal mine to learn to be captain there,
But you didn't stand it very long. You needed the light and the air.

You were never any good with money. You couldn't even hold a job,
Not steady enough for the office, not hard enough for the hod.
You'd rather be watching performers fly or fishing with your split cane rod.
You were never any good with money. You couldn't even hold a job.

When the Second War came along, you knew what should be done.
You would reenlist to teach young men the booby trap and the gun;
And they sent you home to Yorkshire with a crew and a Lewis gun
So you could save your seaside town from the bombers of the Hun.

You were never any good with money. You couldn't even hold a job,
Not steady enough for the office, not hard enough for the hod.
You'd rather be finding the nightjar's nest or fishing with your split cane rod.
You were never any good with money. You couldn't even hold a job.

And when my mother came to your door with a baby in her arm,
Her big hurt boy, just nine years old, trying to keep her from harm—
If you had been a practical man, you would have been forewarned.
You would have seen that it never could work and I would have never been born.

There's no proper work in your seaside town, so you come here looking for a job.
You were store man at the power station just before I came along.
Nobody talked about how you quit, but I know that's what you did.
My mother said you were a selfish man and I was your selfish kid.

You were never any good with money. You couldn't even hold a job,
Not steady enough for the office, not hard enough for the hod.
And your Norton it was soon gone along with your split cane rod.
You were never any good with money. You couldn't even hold a job.

You showed me eyebright in the hedgerow, speedwell and traveler's joy.
You showed me how to use my eyes when I was just a boy.
And you taught me how to love a song, and all you knew of nature's ways,
The greatest gifts I have ever known and I use them every day.

You were never any good with money. You couldn't even hold a job,
Not steady enough for the office, maybe, not hard enough for the hod.
You'd rather be riding your Norton or going fishing with your split cane rod.
You were never any good with money. You couldn't even hold a job.