Grandad.

Dull, dull sapphires

in beds of wrinkles set,

No more mortal sights beheld,

No catch for vision’s net.

Wisp of white thatch splayed,

Askance, cosmetic still,

Half hides gathering rust

of once iron will.

Mouth of million silent words,

Jaw set ever now,

Guarding useless windpipe, dry,

Propping furrowed brow.

Strumming fingers silent, set,

Limbs and torso slack,

Face-gaze permanent and grey

Vein juice, red to black.

A myriad of thoughts and dreams

petrified in mass,

Turning, changing, solid now

then liquid, soon to gas.

A tiny mound of massive life,

Lost droplet on life’s foam,

They came for him at sunset,

Grandad’s going home.