Following Grandad down that grown-up path walk
Slipping on a fresh cow pat Grandad would whisper, don’t worry its clean dirt
Hold tightly onto the aluminum buckets wire handle
Make sure to keep it on an even keel
Not spilling a grain of wheat meal.
The meal mixed wither water from a close by spring well
Ground by Grandads hardened hands fed both chicken and pig.
On return the bucket was filled with turf to build the night fire
“Waste not want not” Grandads motto.
Grandad was a dab hand with an axe
Chopping just enough wood to burn until sleep time
What thoughts we cherish of time spent with Grandad
Never a cross word did he utter.
Life’s lessons learned in fields of gold, by glowing fire light
As we rambled through mushroom covered fields
He would never tire of questions asked.
Walking solitary bohereen’s, driving cows home for milking
We strolled and dreamed in silence.
Living in this artificial civilisation, in the sunset of our years
Remembering the perfect excellence of times long past and Grandad.
(c) Chris Black. October 2018
~The Poet’s Poet~
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