Seed-sower
Grandfather marked my mind as few men did:
Those well-worn shabby clothes he’d aye dress in;
Hobnailed ex-miner’s boots upon his feet,
And yet something about him always neat -
A buttonhole, or cravat with a pin.
He kept old coins and screws, each in their jar,
Explaining to this child what treasures are
In conversation mixed with silence long.
I never heard him tell me I was wrong,
But oh! The tales that he could spin
Led me aright… a talent shared by few!
That garden speaks of him while still I live -
What tells? Cornflowers - his sharp eyes of blue;
But most, against the shed, his sleeping sieve.
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