A little girl, full of spark and bliss,
Skips towards the council bungalow,
In which her Grandpa sits, exists

Familiar scent, of Golden Virginia,
She runs to him through a smoky haze,
Across the heavily patterned carpet

His arms outstretched, warm and inviting,
Dull wool pullover of greys and browns,
Hangs loosely on his frame, so fragile

Innocent play from this precious little girl,
Brings happy smiles and water to his eyes,
As he lights another rolled up white stick

She loves the attention the old man gives,
Feeling she is special, the centre of his world,
Playing with betting slips on his coffee table

The drone of the horse-racing sends her to sleep,
Head on Grandpa’s lap, curled up and content,
Her dreams are of play, so pure and sweet

Her young mind doesn’t stretch to feelings of loss,
Time taken for granted with old Grandpa,
One day he wouldn’t be there to make her laugh

Just a precious memory and a photograph,
Her tears would fall and her heart would break,
As she looked back to cherish those days