GRANDFATHERED

It was always there

Above the kitchen cupboards

That decked the walls.

It dwarfed silly china

Ducks or swans

That I cannot remember now.

A bottle of Black and White –

Two little Scottie dogs

That enchanted me,

And they still do.

It was half full,

That’s how it seemed to me.

Half empty my grandmother said.

It was your grandfather’s tipple,

So it’s probably cold tea.

He’d surely have drained it

And disguised his crime.

Anyway, he’s not here to confess.

I was so small.

I could not reach it.

I’m still trying to climb

High enough to enjoy it.

POSTSCRIPTS

Up at five,

Barely alive,

Dangerous drive,

If I can park I'll survive

Another day,

Striving for pay.

My skin cancer scars

Often help my mind 

Remember sequences of events -

Like ancient texts

Curated by the blind,

Penned on parchment,

Once pristine,

In past tense.

I am sick of paddling in the shorebreak.

If only I was swimming way out there -

Beyond burbling white crests of wild waves' sets,

Where sea and sky blush in the sunset's glare.