I was a shy and rather awkward boy when my father died
Insular, feeling alone, for a while I gave up and no longer tried.
As I journeyed on through my strange teenage years
I got into many fights, I was fighting my fears.
I grew big and tough and never was downed
But my heart was near breaking and I very near drowned.
In time I found love which is surely so good
We’ve loved ever since as hard as we could.
But a gift you say, a gift real and true
‘Twas the books of Charles Dickens, Mr Dickens, ‘twas you.
Many was the time I’d immerse in your fables
Hoping as always for the weak to turn tables
And often they did, but oft times at great cost
In tales based on those who you helped, who were lost.
Thus a hundred years after the year that you died
I decided to write, and with a conscience I’ve tried.
I read and I read and I stretched out my mind
Hoping my soul would behave in like kind.
Then I took to my pen scribbling that which I knew
In red , green and black ink, and often just blue.
And writing is plentiful, though not always good
But I try and improve as always one should
Thus inspired me you did, in your books as I grew
So the gift that is so true, Mr Dickens, is you.
©Joe Wilson – Mr Dickens and my newly opened eyes…2015
Let me not for a second minimise the wonderful gift my wife has been to me, I’ve written about her frequently, indeed I couldn’t resist slipping in the two lines about her here. But I met Mr Dickens first and he too has always accompanied me in my Night Walks through The Battle of Life.