My grandad is outside
under the bonnet of his green
Morris Marina,
tinkering and fixing,
battered metal tool-box at his feet,
screwdriver in hand, spanner tucked
into the back pocket of his jeans.
I am eight years old,
sitting at the coffee table
writing poems and stories
and eating ice-cream from a pint glass
filled with lemonade,
my grandad’s special treat.
He turns the key in the ignition
and listens to the sound of the engine
like an orchestra warming up.
He switches the engine off.
Not quite satisfied.
He wipes the oil from his hands
and tries again.
Here I sit all these years later
different table, different notebook,
but the ideas remain the same.
The summer Sunday afternoons
of over forty years ago come back to me.
I read the scribbled page over.
Not quite satisfied.
I wipe the ink from my hands
and try again.