As a wee boy
Daddy used to gallop along
on his imaginary horse,
wearing an imaginary hat,
slapping his thigh
as he rode along.
He was a cowboy!

Along William Street
and around the Derry Walls
he would gallop,
occasionally pointing
his imaginary gun
to shoot baddies –
“Bang, bang! You’re dead!”

Don’t they say
“show me the child at seven
and I’ll show you the man”?
Well, Daddy never grew out
of cowboys
and, even at the ripe old age of 91,
he would occasionally take
a sideways gallop
down the corridor
while singing The Lone Ranger song.

But even the best cowboy
sometimes comes off his horse
and Daddy came tumbling down,
mid-gallop.

A few minutes later,
there he stood –
puzzled, crest-fallen
and nursing a very sore finger.

Poor Daddy!

Gentle (and somewhat bemused)
doctors and nurses
patched up Daddy’s finger
(ouch!)
and Daddy was dispatched back home
in a taxi.

No cowboy-gallops in the corridor
this time!

Thank You, Lord,
for looking after Daddy.
Thank You for strong bones
that withstood such a fall.
Thank You for a caring doctor
who fixed Daddy’s finger
with special tape and glue,
taking time to listen to Daddy
as he jollied him along
to distract him
from the pain.

Thank You for caring taxi drivers
who made us feel
that Daddy was more
than simply another fare.

This morning,
Daddy is, once again,
bright as a button,
despite his aches and pains.
And although I have a sneaking suspicion
that his cowboy days are over,
Daddy seems to be very contented
(sure doesn’t he have
a real shiner of a black eye
to show off to his friends?)

© Claire Murray, 10th April 2025