#gravesidewords
for Dad
by Paul Baldry (Long John)
I spoke with you once, beside the stone—
a quiet chat, just you and me.
I told you of the brickyard days,
the donkey loose on Carlton Hill,
the axe too tall for my boyish hands,
and the train set Santa brought at four.
We laughed, you and I,
until tears came softly,
and I wiped them away
like a soldier trained not to cry.
Since then, I walk the beach alone—
Saltcoats, my town,
where the sea knows my name.
Each step a memory,
each wave a whisper of you.
I see you in the curve of the tide,
in the gull’s cry overhead,
in the hush between footsteps
where your quiet laugh still lives.
I speak to you often,
not aloud, but in the rhythm of thought—
about the things I missed,
the chess games never played,
the fence posts pitched like monuments
to a childhood I carry like a medal.
You are not in our homes now,
but you walk with me still.
In the salt air,
in the wind off Arran,
in the hush of low tide
where memory meets the sea.
Feb 24
Feb 24, 2026 at 2:16 AM UTC