My Dad was a ladder maker
constructing kit for cleaners of windows
slow and steady in his craft putting pride before profit
his ladders rested upon sills and guttering
of every discerning domestic dwelling in Derbyshire
Dad only used good unblemished wood
free from faults and knots
he did not sell steps filled with putty mix
berating those who operate quick and dirty fixes
which may betray the trust of unsuspecting customers
From my Dad I learned to discover deceit
searching cracked smiles and creaking protestations
gleaning hidden truths beneath glossed over surfaces
his lofty craft keeping my feet firmly on the ground.
aplaceforpoetry 
this is just amazing! the final paragraph is a masterpiece!
Thank you, dear Sharmishtha. Drawing links with personal history, help me to understand things which move me to write now. L.P. Hartley said ‘The past is another country: they do things differently there.’ They do, but I feel ‘they’ may be the key holders of our future x
Great prose poem!
Thank you – like you, I find great value in connections. The more I write about my Dad, the more he lets me see x