When the Singing’s Done

Of an evening in my childhood 
Headed home in the dark 
Buckled in between my parents 
The three others in the back 
We were tired and often cranky 
Jostling for leg room 
Through the boredom in the quiet 
He’d start to softly sing.

He’d sing of gamblers and drinkers 
Travelling men and their women 
Things that made no sense 
To minds too young to care 
But that voice there in the quiet 
In the darkness and the stillness 
I’ll carry with me for a lifetime 
When the singing's done.