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The Pen is Mightier than the Sword

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Posted (edited)

My Grandad

 

My grandad forgets.

 

He speaks of the old times,

Like all grandads should.

He weaves tattered clotheslines;

Sepia-stained yarn to keep you

Tied to his every word;

Schoolyard days and nights at sea,

All condensed in memory,

Unravelled as he knits the pictures;

Tension in his voice.

These are the clothes he wears,

The trend to which he fits.

All he has is memory,

But as days pass, his wits become less sharp;

Blunt days make more pictures to collect,

He finds it hard to manage memories.

The compass points and sea breeze -

They are set in stone.

Our faces and our names -

These remain in reach,

The fact that we just arrived

Still takes him by surprise

Each time he sees us in his home.

Edited by drummondo
Posted

Sorrowfully beautiful. For me, the poem started with a somber statement and pulled me along thru your Grandads memories right up to his moment of realization. It reminds me of my Grandfather in many respects.

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