My Grandfather's Ghost. Poem by niall gormley

Jack Fry may well have been
A fire-boy on a tall ship.
Sailing the world
He'd carry buckets of soup
To the tall men with their large hands.

Laughing loud they'd hold him high
As he sought the wide horizons.
Ah, Jack Fry
And his forgotten soup.

Sea.

Surf.

Sea.

Sand.

(Back here in the city
I have left the ocean
For the long shore.
Now my horizons are brown paper bags
And to look at me you'd think
Thin sticks
Are my only food.)

My grandfather's ghost haunts me -
for I knew his daughter you know.