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Laura Farrell (17) from Cheshire
Published in 'My Poetry Idol - Inspirations'
He always sang
Unfamiliar tunes with ridiculous lyrics,
Perfectly timed for imperfect moments,
Followed by 'Top of the Pops, 19xx'.
A family idiom,
It didn't matter that he was always wrong.
He always sang obnoxiously,
The life of dead family gatherings.
Scolded by a long-suffering wife,
And encouraged by us kids who knew no better,
A forced smile from those who'd heard the same song again
And again, always.
It would be 'easy' to get over it
If what was him was dead long before he died
But like a cuckoo clock,
Little glimpses of 'Grandpa' popped through,
Less and less often as time ticked by.
The last time that bird popped out
'Happy birthday,' to me
In half-formed words and warbling tunes
With all the other poor souls in the home
While I stood there, awkward,
Not knowing that that moment would be the last of 'Grandpa'.
A month after,
He wasn't there to sing.
But we were
And we will
For you, Grandpa,
© Laura Farrell (17)