deepundergroundpoetry.com

With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come

I remember the bounce
of a bus ride into Liverpool
and a rolling ferry that made me so sick
I had to sit on his knee.

My small fingers ploughed the fields
on his potato sack face
as he kept a weather eye on the Mersey
and swamped me with his huge farm-hand hands.

I love you grandad I said, touching his cheek
beneath a gaze that drifts towards an ocean.
and there it was,
a smile that fitted perfectly into
every furrow on his face.
Author's Note
Fond memories of my grandad
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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