A poem #37 – Grandma

Old fingers, soft against my hand,
tales of sunshine from another land.

A friendly ghost to warm a heart,
from long ago, right at the start.

A life that’s been lived, a sun that has shone,
tearful rememberings of a longing tongue.

An empty space, where a man once belonged,
I beg, don’t be sad, now that he’s gone.

JP Collins

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s