A KIND OF BEAUTY

My dad, old-school gent, seldom self-disclosed;
His past was not our business. But one day,
While smoking like a chimney, he exposed
That in his early teens each night he’d pray
To wake with normal hands – his right: a mess
Of stunted growth, “butchered” under the knife
Of poor man’s surgery; it would depress
A lesser man: Dad prayed with all his life.

No miracle took place. His deepest goal
Seemed distant till he woke, as from a dream,
Thinking – “it takes an arm to hold a ball” – 
And soon ran with the rugby league firsts’ team.
Hope doesn’t give us what we want; it’s kinder –
It gives us what we need to play a blinder.

Rita Glennon

Written for the 2022 ACU Prize for Poetry, and shortlisted for the same, on the theme of Hope, and in memory of my father, Gerard Williams (January 11, 1942–January 9, 2013) pictured below at my year 10 formal.