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In Memory
of Private Frederick Noel Taylor
The Fisherman“s Son
by
Ron Taylor
(Son of a Fepow)
Noel, Noel, Angels did sing,
Glory to the new born king.
In celebration on that night,
A cry of pain and then delight.
A child was born, a fisherman’s son,
Life’s long story had just begun.
In his time many changes to see,
Love and torment, bore them he.
The leather ball, was his start of fame,
Town Boy Colours was his to claim.
Local cups and medals won,
His country to war called the fisherman’s son.
Farewells to wife and their new born babe,
To the Far East his journey made.
Fighting Samara on Singapore’s soil,
Captured, then started a three year toil.
Building railways was never his intent,
Bamboo Interpreters kept his back well bent.
Working, dying, how could this be,
Away from home across the sea.
Hold on to life, was on his mind,
A family awaits, “I must be blind”
“To the horror these years have brought,”
“My family must be my only thought.”
“I’m waking now, the nightmare ends,”
“Farewell my pals, mates and friends.”
Travelling home the story was told,
Not to be forgotten when he is old.
The years passed by, a family was born,
Cloths were bought but hardly worn.
Those years and memories he did keep,
Nightmares accompanied many a sleep.
Early in two thousand and one,
His call was answered, his battle won.
Glory to an earthly king.
Noel, Noel, the angels sing.
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