Horace


I loved my grandad Horace.
He was the world to me.
He died when I was just sixteen.
His face no more to see.

Standing, waiting at the doorstep.
For Horace home off shift.
As he walked down into Hancock Street.
My heart would get a lift.

He was always doing something.
It didn’t matter what.
If Gran’ wanted something mending.
That’s exactly what she got.

I loved to smell tobacco.
From the pouch as he filled his pipe.
Made figures from pipe cleaners.
When I cried the tears he’d wipe.

We’d walk up onto Bank top.
Hand in hand away we’d talk.
Or sit on the kerb beside the road.
With stones on the cobbles we’d chalk.

Sometimes tired out he’d sit fast asleep.
In the back in his favorite chair.
Waking only when false teeth dropped down.
And blocking off his air.

Mum laughed as she cleaned his glasses.
Of the flour dust from Ranks mill.
Saying, no he wasn’t going blind.
Your eyes are working still.

Most of all I miss my Grandad.
For what he was to me.
The rock I could depend on.
And the love he gave for free.

©DWSmith. 15/06/2008.


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