Granddad's tree
October the second, two thousand and three
Reads an inscription under a tree.
Rooted in my garden for all to see
My Sarah calls it her granddad’s tree.
Growing to remind us that all is not lost
We still have our memories of the Sweeny boss
The man with the badges all over his hat
The shy quiet man who took no crap
The man who smiled at hilarious jokes
He drank dark rum for Scotland.
This man was my father he made me so proud,
Sometimes I still hear him call my name loud,
I turn around to find nobody is there,
I still see him sitting in that corner chair,
Cross legged and sleeping one hand in his hair,
And his other clasped round tumbler.
I go to the pub he used to frequent
His memories are in with the bricks
Now when I look at the chair he once sat
All I can see is a really sad mix
Not fit enough to lace up his shoes
They sit in his chair and drink there booze
He is now up in heaven and looking down
At changes taking place in his Livingston town
His home on this earth for thirty two years
Where he shared tears and laughter, and quite a few beers
I think of him working with Jesus up high
Building our pathway up to the sky
Laying foundations between heaven and earth
Building our road to salvation
I can’t help thinking when I look at granddad’s tree
The words of my father saying to me
“See that pathway that goes up to god
I built that so a did, that was me
Single handed with just a couple of my pals”
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