By Ben Macnair
Ursa Minor
Six months before his final heart attack,
my Grandfather stopped to stare
at the night sky.
His fingers traced the shapes and the outlines
of the Big Dipper, and the Plough,
joining the stars that made Orion’s Belt.
Sometimes, when walking through the inky blackness
I stare at the stars,
who haven’t aged a day,
and think of him.
Maybe one day,
when his great-grandson
is allowed to stay up later than the Sun,
he will watch someone else’s fingers,
trace the outline of the stars and the planets,
that we all dream of visiting, one day.
Low Tides
He watches over his domain,
the footprints left by dogs,
and their walkers,
the empty bottles with no messages,
washed up, the volunteer work party,
here again, do what they can.
The mist over the sea,
the skeleton of an old boat,
washed up, and only the prow remains.
It sits, alone, its wood slowly rotting
with saltburn.
The empty houses, left with no roofs,
where in summer the teenagers gather,
because it is the closest to the clamour.
The seagull, ever watchful,
hopes for chips,
knowing there will only ever be
cigarette ends.
Ben Macnair is an award-winning poet and playwright from Staffordshire in the United Kingdom. Follow him on Twitter @ benmacnair
Academy of the Heart And Mind 