Grandpa could make fire
With two sticks,
Do tricks
With paper planes and cards.
And he thrilled my soul
With tales of the sea
And deserts harsh as they can be.
But best of all I loved being near
When he blew smoke out of his ear!

He took our photos
- made frames himself -
To go on Granny's special shelf.
He played the violin and what's more
He taught our dog to count to four!
And he painted woodlands, carved love spoons
On long, hot, drowsy afternoons.

When he died (I was three) they burned his stuff
The cigarettes that killed him, and his snuff
Box, paper planes and cards.
And the old brown photo in his Sunday best
Went up in smoke with all the rest.

I didn't know he'd gone,
For death was impossible then;
But now a life time later, with
More years than he had known
In those quiet moments
When the soul finds truth
I recall his kindly ways
And the tricks and tales he shared with me
In those far-off childish days.

He was a good man, by all accounts,
Teacher, friend and guide
Sent by a loving providence
It cannot be denied.
But best of all
I loved him dear
When he blew smoke out of his ear.