Granddad's garage

An imprint,
there on the old stone floor
of my granddad's garage
It tells me of times yonder
a faraway mirage

Cradling the small pup
one cold autumn afternoon
Big projects, lots of wood
nails down and up
on free Wednesday noons

The rusty tools still hang loose
rattling the green door, a scent of tar
A dusty screwdriver forlorn
between the brushes on the old dressoir

Sawdust and those oil drops that never erase
tainting the old tills without frills
muddy paws of the pup,
that now has grown old of age,
litter the ground with my bygone fantasies

My view returns to the plank
and my eyes, for a while blank
glitter in the shape of the work under my hands
I'm back in those childhood lands ...