With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come

Intro: Memory poems

I remember the bounce
of a bus ride into Liverpool
and a rolling ferry that made me so sick
I had to sit on his knee.

My small fingers ploughed the fields
on his potato sack face
as he kept a captains eye on the Mersey,
swamping me with his huge farm hand hands.

I love you grandad I said, touching his cheek
beneath a gaze that sailed in from the ocean.
and there it was,
a smile that fitted perfectly into
every furrow on his face.