grandad.

You are not lying in that bed.

Instead
You are swinging my youthful
grandmother between your knees
Toes tapping to the beat.
Teddy boy, with feet
like rampant, fluid wildfire;
You are not lying in that bed.
Instead
You have donned a purple wig
and wrinkled old stockings
And you’re singing, with a smile
In your own inimitable style;
You are not lying in that bed.
Instead
You’re fighting angry tentpoles
In a freezing winter field
With a twinkle in your eye
“We’ll be comfy!” – what a lie!
You are not lying in that bed.
Instead
You are holding out a strong hand
To hold on, tight, to mine,
to show you’re there, and will remain –
You won’t let me feel such pain;
You are not lying in that bed.
In my head
We are dancing
In Bulgaria, 93
Can you feel it?
Can you see?
There are things I want to tell you
That you’re never going to know
Unless I keep the faith inside me
That your hearing’s yet to go
So I grab the chance with both hands
And I lean over to kiss you
And I hope you leave me knowing
That I’m really going to miss you –
You are not lying in that bed.
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