Innocence returning (Edit 1)

[Keith]

Edit 2
There's a cold breeze
coming through the back door,
causing it to creak on its hinges.
Grandads gone across the backs
to feed his pigeons.

I find him inside the empty loft
closing derelict cages,
gently I place an arm
around his confusion.
Using soft words we stumble outside
to breathe in real moments.

The overgrown allotment glistens
through heavy dew droplets,
strung out across gossamer connections
that tremble in the thin morning light.
We hear the rush of racing pigeons
and watch them disappear overhead
like ghosts into field mist.

Grandad stood staring at the sky,
"they're not coming back are they son?"
I put my coat around his shoulders,
'no Grandad they've been gone too long".

We start the slow walk back towards the house,
"someone will have to tell your Grandma,
she loved those birds"
I silently take his unpredictable hand,
match my pace to his wet slippered shuffle,
and avoid the cloudy-yellow of his child like eyes.


Edit 1
A cold awareness leaves
the back door open,
causing it to creak on its hinges.
Grandad's gone across the backs
to feed his pigeons.

I find him inside the empty loft
closing derelict cages,
gently I place an arm
around the confusion.

The overgrown allotment glistens
through droplets, strung out
to tremble in the damp morning light.
We hear the rush of racing pigeons
and watch them disappear,
ghosts into field mist.

Grandad stood staring at the sky,
“they’re not coming back are they son?”
I put my coat around his shoulders.
We start the slow walk back towards the house.
“Someone will have to tell your Grandma,
she loves those birds”

I catch the coat as it slips off his shoulders
and wrap it around him once again.




Original
There’s a cold breeze
coming through the back door
causing it to creak on its hinges,
Grandad's gone across the backs
to feed his pigeons.

I find him inside the empty loft
closing derelict cages,
gently I place an arm
around the confusion.
Using soft words we stumble outside
towards real moments.

The overgrown allotment glistens
through droplets, strung out
to tremble in the damp morning light.
We hear the rush of racing pigeons
and watch them disappear overhead
like ghosts into field mist.

Grandad stood staring at the sky,
“they’re not coming back are they son?”
I put my coat around his shoulders,
‘no Grandad they’ve been gone too long”.
We start the slow walk back towards the house.

“Someone will have to tell your Grandma,
she loved those birds”
“She’s gone too Grandad,
Grandma’s gone too”.