“The Stick”

The Stick
by Christopher David White

I am gladly haunted by a sweet memory,
It’s persistence shows its importance to me,
But who’d write a poem on such a trivial thing,
Though, they don’t know the happiness they bring.

It’s nothing special, nought more than a twig,
Yet I can’t seem to forget this tenacious sprig,
Knotted and ugly, you polished it clean,
It was the greatest stick I ever had seen.

On every walk we wandered it was in my hand,
From Gosforth to Ingram and Northumberland,
It kept me safe and steady as we travelled the wild,
The simple stick that kept this happy boy beguiled.

Of course I still remember those green videos,
And the way you said wireless instead of radios,
But that stick has stuck more than the gorilla tape,
Or the gurney’d faces you pulled to look like an ape.

I remember your stories of travels to Glasgow,
The way you drummed your chair and Andre Rieu,
Your music taste and your record player,
The greenhouse, the bird-feed, your love for nature.

But who’d have guessed that my childhood staff,
Could conjure so many memories that make me laugh,
Remembering the good times, for there were no bad,
And I’ll miss you Eddie White, my greatest Grandad.

Categories: Other WritingTags: , , , , , , , , , ,


Student of English Literature, Comparative Literature and Classics at Glasgow University. Aspiring writer and poet who dabbles in acting when he can. Or in short... "I like words"

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