Grandpa made his lighters well.
He would take an old paper
(a broadsheet then)
and separate a single page;
starting at one corner,
he would fold it into a long,
one-and-a-half-inch-wide strip,
and then this too was folded,
criss-crossed a dozen times,
and the ends tucked carefully in.
The result was a paper concertina,
perhaps ten inches long.
Once he had made several
they looked identical.
Now I try to recreate his patient labour,
but my kids don't understand, and ask
'Why not crumple all the paper into balls? '
Not sure what to say, I just invent:
'Well, this activity's relaxing,
like yoga or Thai Chi:
I concentrate on folding,
and forget life's rougher side.'
I guess I should have said
'Grandpa's fires lit first time! '
Will they, or grandkids
(if they ever come)
notice my old technique,
and carry on this weird tradition?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Robert, in a little lighter vein, I am reminded of a couplet from Alexander Pope: We think our fathers fool as we grow, Our wiser sons, no doubt, will think us so. LOL CP