PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I really loved that old man

And once, while talking on the phone,

We remembered, that if he were alive,  

It would have been his birthday.



But he died when I was five.



I began to reminisce, and I can still recall:

His constant booming laughter,

His smell, never changing,

St Bruno (ready rubbed) and Brylcreem.

I miss the warm familiarity of his worn tweed jacket,

And I still can feel the weight of his heavy horn rimmed glasses.

In despite of my childhood's hazy memories,

I can still trace with my finger,

The spotted and mazy deltas,

On the backs of his sunbrowned hands.

His pockets, seemed to me, like some vast Alladins cave,

Always filled with treasures: a toy, a homemade trick, some sweets

And his magical pocket knife.



As a bairn his lap was my special place,

And I would repel all boarders.

But I found that now, to my disgrace,

I had no memories of his face.

(I kept this to myself)



"You take after him in many ways!"

Was mum's parting shot.



He didn't much like photography,

And it was many years before I found the snap,

Taken with a Kodak Brownie,

In a shoe box, with some bubble wrap.



My Gran was laughing as ever, pretty in a floral print,

On the sunny banks of the Shannon,

And there standing by the open door  

Of his pride and joy, his Standard car,

Was a big man, my Granddad, all in black,

And over his arm, his race-course mack.



But I found one thing was out of place,

For smiling back,

Was my own face!