Yer Faither is daein'
well son, he's goat
a lovely joab, he does a wee bit
gairdenin' an' landscapin' for The Lord.
Ye should see the joy oan his face, nae worries
nor discomfort, an' nae lumbago neither.
He trims lots o' roses yet no' ane has
a single thorn. He's guid wi' perennials -
yet it's strange tae see them in bloom a' year.
The Gaffer said that He had watched him work
when he was doon on Earth wi' ye. He liked
the way Faither gently misted plants (Noo
he slides them in a cloud). An' how the floo'ers
grow, well they wid, wi' a' yon licht! But still,
yer Dad's happy so whit mair can be said?
This poem got an "Honourable Mention" at the
West Virgina Poetry Society Convention in 2002.