BY FIDELMA SAEVARU
He was four foot three With silver grey hair free Big rimmed glasses guarded two brown eyes Eyes so cloudy, dimmed by ages toil. Hard working hands so tough Feet that walked million miles Back bent from laborious work And two missing teeth replaced by plastic duplicates His voice was beautifully magical Naturally shaky and made everyone wakey Melodious sounds escaped the guitar at his strum A mixture of instrument and voice No one would dare ignore. An entertaining storyteller he recounts Stories of old, stories so true The war, the White man The country before now A panel beater he was The best I have ever seen Go bring in your wrecked cars He’ll return with no scars A book worm of novels, newspapers and later the Bible A fan of poker, 7 leaf and card games in prime years He once love the bottle guy He once loved the casinos He also once loved my grandma But that was all now in the past He sang the good oldies He talked about great times He rejoiced in new life And wept at the loss of it His hands though a bit shakey Were prompt to lend a hand. He went to sleep one day And rose again no more Old age creeped up on him eventually And took his breath away In my fathers’ arms he slept No more songs so cheery No more tales so dearie His seat forever empty That was my grandpa.