Painting portraits with words .....
The truth is
I remember my grandfather
as a fine sepia print
blurred round the edges
an air of mystery shrouding him
man of few words
who seldom laughed or smiled
The truth is
my grandfather struggled
to let others inside
ruled his household
with an iron hand
worked his acreage
cloaked in a velvet glove
The truth is I saw in
my mother, her brothers and sisters
the very best of my grandfather
traits I admired most
my grandfather left his mark
on me, a lovely sepia golden hue