There was a man

There was a man who was precise.

He was ready with his tape measure

to ensure things measured up.

Too long, and he would be irritated.

Too deep, and he would belittle.

Too wide, and he would side-step.

He liked his breakfast a certain way: his tea an exact hue;

his newspaper, a comforting echo of his own convictions.

He liked his work a certain way: his train on time,

his desk organised, his eight hours clocked.

He liked the art of conflict:

to grind down the weary opposition.

There was a man who started well; 

Who loved his country and adored his wife.

There was a man devoured by the guilt of surviving:

brother, and mother and wife.

Leaving his children fearing his

relentless standards and harsh tongue.

There was a man who was loved.