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I remember last sighs,
breath of finally done,
as smiling then he dies,
just more of Grampie's fun.

I saw his side serious,
once or twice without a smile,
he must have been delirious,
malarial warring while.

He spoke of Burma once or twice,
his army days his favorite joke,
his eyes would drift to ancient fire,
something of youth lost in the smoke.

Grampie in the vegetables,
sweat Indian arm tattoo's,
the poacher and the constable,
woodland outhouse loos.

He told me and my Brother,
of all the good old days,
looking forward to another,
giving the same with all he says.

Pot bellied bearded bull like Buddha, 
Samson strength neath thin white hair,
miss shoveled dirt Jack Russell shudder,
even now I'm sometimes there.

He'd sneak treats from Affie's larder,
chuckling as we fed his Birds and Beasts,
I remember his weight across my shoulder,
just before the final feast.

Some men worry ways through life,
some men dwell on tragedy, 
some men impart only their strife,
happiness is Grampie's legacy.

Laughter was his daily bread,
his smile came from the sun,
it still shines now he's dead,
just more of Grampie's fun.

©D.N. Read 2013

Affie is the name we called my granny by.

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