There's a cold breeze
coming through the back door
causing it to creak on its hinges,
Grandad's gone across the backs
to feed his pigeons.
I find him inside the empty loft
closing derelict cages,
gently I place an arm
around the confusion.
Using soft words we stumble outside
towards real moments.
The overgrown allotment glistens
through droplets, strung out
across gossamer connections
that tremble in the cold morning light.
We hear the rush of racing pigeons
and watch them disappear overhead
like ghosts into field mist.
Grandad stood staring at the sky,
"they're not coming back are they son?"
I put my coat around his shoulders,
'no Grandad they've been gone too long".
We start the slow walk back towards the house,
"someone will have to tell your Nan
she loved those birds"
"She's dead Grandad,