Grandad's Journal

Grandad’s Journal

Christmas, before any of this becomes written history,

he gave me tears and a journal. I left my lad behind,

slogged in leaden boots towards burning desert sands,

dreaming reams of carpets, camels, lanterned lost lands

scribbled in my voice, muttered from his future’s past.

And my Grandfather before him asked me for a diary,

to imprint each cool embered sunset on creamy sheets,

record every twisted passage taken, heartbeat for beat,

but he died before it was finished and hand slipped hand.

Writing love's letters isn’t hard; spilling ink onto paper,

but turning over each page means one day less in turn;

they fall like leaves onto autumn lawns, plunge from trees

to rust; darkest reds, tarnished golds, vanished shadows

we run spider rakes through, comb each strand for glitter,

pan minute fragments; sift precious and wash out litter.

This journal will end in time. And, looking forwards I write

conjured stories, words of mustard white and matted black,

picture days when his time comes to read and look back.