Grandad

"It doesn't look like him."
You hold my hand tightly,
And keep a short distance,
A little afraid of the strangeness.
Oh yes, it looks like him.

It looks like him,
As I knew him,
Before you were here.
Twenty or so years ago,
Before the lines of care
Grew deep and plentiful.

His favourite shirt,
Bearing tiny holes from his cigarette ash,
Looks dark against the white satin
Lining his coffin.

I am glad to be here with you
And not with them
To say this last goodnight.
Not goodbye.