Grandad Loved his pipe

Grandad Loved his pipe

Grandad loved his pipe,

he smoked it to relax and think.

They wouldn’t let him smoke it in the pub,

they complained about the stink.

He’d sit out back in his favourite chair,

hat pulled low, feet in the air.

Not a sound, just clouds and sky,

and smoke that curled as time went by.

He’d tap the bowl and puff real slow,

watching people come and go.

Thoughts would wander, never fast,

dreams of days that didn’t last.

He didn’t care for fuss or speed,

just quiet talk and simple need.

That pipe, he said, kept stress away,

like walking off a noisy day.

He missed the times when rules were slack,

a pint, a laugh, the old pipe in mouth.

Now signs said no, and looks were cold,

he hated rules, he said he was too old.

I still can smell it, soft and warm,

like evenings safe from any storm.

Grandad, pipe, and peace combined,

a gentler world he left behind.

He died, we put it in his box with him,

it seemed right to do.

Now as he sits there on a cloud with his pipe,

he can relax, so calm and free,

No one to complain on clouds you see.

Rest In Peace Grandad🙏