March 15, 2026Poem
Grandad
lossgriefnatureidentitymortality
Grandad
Was a pitman
He wore a pocket watch
On a chain
With a T-bone
Threaded
Through a buttonhole in his
Waistcoat.
He swung it
Back and forth
Before plopping it
Into his pocket.
Little things
Seemed like magic
It was the closest he got
To humour.
A big man
With small dreams
A lay preacher
He blazed from the pulpit
Every Sunday.
Every other day
He sat in front of the fire
Stoking his fury
Smoking a briar
Full of St Bruno
Until one day
He coughed
Himself
To death.
Who would have thought?