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my grandfather 1897 - 1985

Papa

I think about Papa
of walks, holding hands
him singing, discordant

70 years separated us
but he held my hand
and as we walked
the hedgerows
he planted bulbs

I fancify that the bulbs
are still growing into flowers
and that patch
of wasteland
where he took his binoculars

and he tells me
it is only 9 miles
and then we're home

as his grapin loosens the soil
and he mixes the melon with the gourd

sweet gourd
and sour melon

I still miss you papa
but the pain eased a while ago
and I can look at memories
and not keen anymore

Poetry by Elle