Sandwiches and sticky buns on a picnic in the park,
Camping by a riverbank to fish until it was dark,
Chugging up a mountain in an old victorian train,
Picking ripe wild strawberries in the pouring rain,
Holidays with my grandpa were filled with lots to do,
In his shed, we'd both make kites from paper string and glue.
Excursions to the seaside meant swimming in the sea,
Exploring rock pools, flying kites, and fish and chips for tea,
Those were the days, when I was young, a lad, maybe seven or eight,
But now, I stand here, strong and tall, at my grandpa's gate,
He's only here in spirit, and in memories stored up in my mind,
And when, in turn, I become grandpa, the memories won't be hard to find.