By Benjamin Macnair
Six months before his final heart attack,
my Grandfather stopped to stare
at the night sky.
His fingers traced the shapes and the outlines
of the Big Dipper, and the Plough,
joining the stars that made Orion’s Belt.
Sometimes, when walking through the inky blackness
I stare at the stars,
who haven’t aged a day,
and think of him.
Maybe one day,
when his great-grandson
is allowed to stay up later than the Sun,
he will watch someone else’s fingers,
trace the outline of the stars and the planets,
that we all dream of visiting, one day.
—
Ben Macnair is an award-winning poet and playwright from Staffordshire in the United Kingdom.