The World Poem by chris dawson

The lad sat on a rock.
High above a raging sea.
This rock itself proven.
A granite hand that faced storm and tide,
and had held his grand-father
Seventy years before.

“Grangee”

“Yes little Jock? ”

Fixing his eyes on nothing,
the horizon shrouded by the greyness,
the boy pointed.

“What’s there….what’s out there…
is that the world? ”

The old man stood beside him,
damp air condensing on a grease stained cap,
fixing his gaze, as the boy,
as he had done as a boy,
from that very rock.

“Nae little Jock…a boy’s world is all here,
here with me and ya Ma and ya Grandma,
that’s where the world is”

“So if I was a gull,
if I could fly like a gull and went with them…
went where they went out there…where would I go? ”

The five year old kicked out his feet,
so that the heels of his boots bounced
on the base of his seat, he liked that sensation.
He could do this whilst still hanging, deeply, onto
the drawn, considered words of his Grandfather.

“Ireland….that’s Ireland out there”

The old man wheezed as he twisted his frame
and bent to sit besides his apple.
Drawing his knees and leaning on them
he awaited the inevitable.

“Like a desert Island? ”


“Oh no, it’s no desert little Jock, not that sort”…
He chuckled to himself.

…“not that one”

The boy turned, more with curiosity than disappointment,
but with a blend of both.

“So what’s there then? ”

“People, places…just like us….just like here,
much the same really”

“oh”

There was pause.

A gull blasted past on a rush of wind, screeched,
the boy pointed, without speaking,
Grandfather doing likewise.

Then the crashing below them took
all consideration.

“Have you ever been down there Grangee? ”

Forcing his little arm between his knees
and pointing to the cliff edge.

“No son…..men have died down there”

The confused horror, that only a child can express,
washed across his face. His mind raced to
all the corners of his imagination.

Grand-dad put on a harsher, threatening
demeanour, little Jock responded, he could always
well feel his Grandfather’s authority.
And left it unchallenged.

There was pause.

“Is Daddy at the island? ”

“No laddie…daddy’s not in Ireland”

The old man braced himself

“But he’s over the sea isn’t he”

Little jock’s body was now leaning on his grandfather’s arm,
as he looked up to find his eyes.
Stoutly, stoically the proud man’s gaze
held firm the sea.

“Yes, he is…he’s in France, where Frenchman live..
….and should stay” he added under his breath.

Grangee stirred his honest bones
and raised himself to one knee,
brushing the dried fronds and sphagnum
from the wax of his familiar old jacket

“C’mon wee fellow…are you hungry? ”

Sure to always trigger a response,
after having sea air for hors d’ouvres,
the lad slipped hurriedly from his perch.
Granddad adjusted the lad’s brown woolly scarf
and pulled his ‘cosy’ down over pink little ears.
Red rooster coloured curls poked out
at awkward angles.

“Can we have fish n chips from Mister Marconi’s? ”

“We most certainly can…can you eat a large supper?

The little face lit up as he leant back and
rubbed both hands around his tummy,
ruffling up layers of clothes, and un-tucking
his shirt.

“C’mon then, lets be on our way….it’ll be dark soon”

These brothers in life made their way down.
A flurry of steps accompanied
the large strides of the imposing figure,
without consciousness a tiny cold hand
slipped into the warm embrace of the protector.

“I love you Grangee”

There was pause.

The old man’s world melted, and he with it,
he squeezed this cherub’s hand.
His mind raced, clouded, raced again,
then imploded.
His 6 foor 2 frame hid his tears high above
the finite world of little Jock.
He squeezed his hand again

They took a few steps, hesitated,
and moved on.
The boy moving as led,
Sheeplike with his shepherd, his God.
Only as an adult would he know
just what the feeling of having his hand
held by this wonderful man would mean.
A man’s main he would surely know.

The old man he had many thoughts
of just how life would be,
how fate would take his little charge
and tend him fatally.
A mind so weak as body strong,
but one that could hold time,
and understood, as old men could,
he neared his life’s last climb.
That little hand within his wrapped,
so safe, assured, secure,
he could not let this little chap,
as he’d foreseen, endure.
They stopped and paused a moments time,
obedient in love,
sweet Grangee wiped his wetted brow
and fixed the seat above.
Without question, lacking doubt
the boy turned round with he,
his innocence could not take in
what this old man could see.
That beaten path, that weathered track,
to a seat of contemplation,
a wind swept mind, refreshed and cleansed,
coped with every situation.
They stood there as one, unified,
as they’d done these past five years,
and sentry like he bit his lip,
but could not defy his tears.
He scruffed the boys flaming locks
and scooped him in his arms,
then held him tight, his soldier mite,
and bathed within his charms.
The child’s smile had been his life,
and now it was as if,
he thanked him for his five brief years
as he threw him off the cliff.

As the boy left his arms
he knew what he must do,
the blade of conscience entered him,
it ran itself right through.
Boot to boot he towered there,
and looked down at the child,
as all around the water crashed,
nature at it’s most wild.
Just then a parting of the sky,
a light came gushing through,
a golden line of happiness,
anchored by crimson blue.
The wondrous rays they formed a hand,
but not a hand’s true form,
it caught the boy and lowered him
amongst the sea spray storm.
And there he sat, upon a rock,
as he’d done an hour before,
oblivious to all the world
and surrounding furore.
The waves they broke and crashed about
him as his quietly sat,
protected, shielded once again,
old Jock marvelled at that.
Grangee leaned, body stiff,
pivoted on that ledge,
closed his mind, opened his eyes,
and floated o’er the edge.
There was a heaven, and he had found,
the peace that all men sought,
he could now rest eternally,
his last battle had been fought.
The bodies were never ever found,
heartache took no rest,
empty graves with empty hearts,
respite was just a guest.
But out, way out, on heavy seas
an Irish fishing boat
trawled its nets one stormy day
and, caught upon a float,
the little woolly ‘cosy’ hat,
knitted with so much love,
a fisherman was curious
as he spotted it above.
Unsure of what it was at first,
on an unproductive day,
he unhooked little Jock’s chapeau
and stowed the thing away.
Later on the trip to home
he sat there in his bunk
and tried to put a story to
this piece of flotsam junk.
The hat contained a little tear,
how poignant he felt,
as he pondered of its owner and
just what fate had dealt.
Though many years have now passed by
since those two went to the Lord,
the little cosy hat is still
an important part aboard.
It seems to radiate they found,
like the body of a man,
and nothing that they’ve had before
keeps the teapot like it can.