Longing For The Footprints Of A Ghost

I’m up shit creek, this time,
Granddad. My madness
Isn’t paying off like it did,
When I made her happy and

Delirious, in love. I look
Up to the clouds, hoping that
You are, at least, there to
Listen. I sure ache for

You to materialise, sometimes,
In that cardigan and mug
Of tea, in your hand, dishing
Out no judgement. Being soft

And woolly, like you always
Were. Sun breaks up the
Grey sky. You must have
Heard me, after all.

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