The music of the day
plays silently in my psyche
and without realizing it -
on my better days I bring it alive -
a bright piccolo of a smile or kindness.
On my shadow days
it is the bass fiddle in a minor key
begun from depths of pride
played in the lower register,
the bow slowly sliding hubris
across the thick strings.

The sun is wondering
if it should dive into the sea
while two wanderers still play
on the edges of the dark
beckoning it to stay
just a little longer.

For just a short distance away
the bright gold lingers
in the shallows
where they could tiptoe
into the iridescent rippling.

The shimmering surges
on the margins
where the waves have lost their energy
and the tide is a glassy placid.

I am wondering
like the sun
if it is time to set
or if I should wade into the rippling light.

He told me stories of his youth
while we sat close to the burning fire
The wood crack loudly as the coal turned red
and the chimney ****** the embers higher and higher

He told me stories of the ghosts that scamper about in the dark night
he met one once on the way to the loo that turned his hair bright white
And then the time he was fetching coal when he was just a boy of ten
and in the morning walking to the coop to collect breakfast from mother hen

My granddad and his stories who I still love so very much
At home time, he would kiss me smile and say, see you tomorrow, “last touch”

O, the stories he told me I remember to this day
And still rue the time of our lives when all granddads are taken away