My Grandfather's Chair

My grandfather used to sit in his old wooden chair -

piped tobacco dripping from his mouth whilst clouds of smoke

sifted through bungalow air.

My hands would reach up towards pink-tiled sky,

his bubbles I would catch, re-emerging like light from fireflies,

caught with indistinct perception through grey chimney smog,

misty as the depths of Niagara, a winter morning fog.

He picked me up one day as he swung in his chair,

whispered in my ear gently so his voice wouldn't cling to the air.

He said my sweet darling let me tell you this,

stay true to your soul as an earthly cherubim

with wings that let you fly like a celestial seraphim,

for your self is the only true holy religion

that is able to steer you in the right direction,

and with that he planted a kiss deep into my cheek,

to finalise the oath that I would not grow weak.