Maybe it’s those absent eyes,
gone searching for their better days,
that give away your hide and seek disguise
and tell me that you’re far away.
Are you back in New York,
chasing that old American dream
through the concrete foundations
on which you built our family's beam?
Or are you in Wigan’s Central park,
in Billy Boston’s Empire State,
watching Warriors paint the town red
then parading back home late?
With a mind swarming with memories we made,
fireflies against the looming night,
that keep your heart all aglow
like Uncle Joe’s, your beloved afternoon delight.
Or are you waltzing on the ocean waves,
with clumsy hands that made the neatest bow tie
falling in love all over again
as continents float leisurely by?
Or are you asleep in front of the news,
dreaming of the lad you used to be,
caressed by the smell of hot buttered toast,
baptised in nostalgia with a warm cup of tea?
As hospital walls close in on your freedom,
I realise with a tear,
I don’t know where you are Grandad,
but it’s certainly not here.