Our Gramps

Our Gramps was a miner, who worked the coal face

A tall man, and proud with a pantherish grace.

His body rock hard as the pick axe he`d wield,

His eyes blue as harebells we`d pick in the fields.

 

Oh how we loved him, and we were so proud

Of his tallness, his blackness, his clogs scraping loud.

“Make them spark Gramps,” we`d shout, hopping with glee

And fire flew from his irons for brother and me.

 

Each evening we`d wait with excited tingle

For the clang of his clogs and his billycan jingle.

Then leaving our hopscotch, our mirps or our jacks

We`d rush off to meet him to welcome him back.

 

Sometimes, just sometimes, he`d bring us a treat

Chocolate biscuits for us two to eat.

In red and gold wrappers, crushed next to his hip

Ambrosia they tasted, and smelled of the pit.

 

On bitter cold mornings when frost nipped my nose

I`d hear him slip out and clop off up the road.

As dawn was just breaking I`d pull up the cover,

And snuggle up warm in my bed next to brother.

 

Hard work could not break him, nor poverty cow.

This land was built on the sweat of his brow.

Though child hood is past, and our Gramps is long gone

The memory, oh  the memory, will always live on.