Grandpa in his weather-worn woolly
worked religiously along the pews.
The penitent peas pushed into place
amidst the soul-saved smell of soil.
He patiently ploughed the errant earth;
dispersed his peace between the rows
and within the still, worshipful silence
only the good were allowed to grow.
That sacred sanctuary stayed undisturbed
but for pardoned pilgrims; the common birds.

My own allotment I now diligently tend,
and in the quiet of that wild field
will know my grandad's steady hand
rests here within this loamy land.

Note on this one

Grandpa died 20 plus years ago, and in little things it amazes me how much I'm still his granddaughter.  I use his phrases, smile at his many jokes, remember his Quakerism, his sense of peace and quiet amusement, and his love of attaching things firmly with glue and screws. In my own content and solitary Sunday digging I remember him with every robin that perches on the compost bin and watches me, alert for unearthed worms.