My grandfather died seventy years ago this week. Obviously i never knew him and have only one small black and white photograph of him on my study wall. He’s standing in the backyard of the terraced house they lived in in Oldham. Lancashire. This is a poem I wrote about him a long time ago. My mother said he was gassed in WW1 and never recovered.
My Grandad
I look at the photograph.
He smiles,and silently
he tells me
his story…
In my backyard I stand,
Hands wrapped around a mug of tea.
Shirt sleeves, rolled back,
Reveal tattoos – slack muscles.
I grin.
All teeth.
Who cares that they’re more black
Than white.
Underneath
That’s my life;
That’s the grin I learned
When burned
By poison
Spreading
Like wild garlic.
That’s the grin I wear
When I look
But don’t see
The dark oil glistening,
Blistering, inside me.
When I hear, but don’t listen
To my…
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