drummondo Posted June 22, 2005 Report Share Posted June 22, 2005 (edited) My Grandad My grandad forgets. He speaks of the old times, Like all grandads should. He weaves tattered clotheslines; Sepia-stained yarn to keep you Tied to his every word; Schoolyard days and nights at sea, All condensed in memory, Unravelled as he knits the pictures; Tension in his voice. These are the clothes he wears, The trend to which he fits. All he has is memory, But as days pass, his wits become less sharp; Blunt days make more pictures to collect, He finds it hard to manage memories. The compass points and sea breeze - They are set in stone. Our faces and our names - These remain in reach, The fact that we just arrived Still takes him by surprise Each time he sees us in his home. Edited June 23, 2005 by drummondo Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Mira Posted June 23, 2005 Report Share Posted June 23, 2005 Sorrowfully beautiful. For me, the poem started with a somber statement and pulled me along thru your Grandads memories right up to his moment of realization. It reminds me of my Grandfather in many respects. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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