She selected her coat
with care,
blue it was,
just like the sky

she wore the butterfly,
the one from the charity shop,
gaudy enamel it was,
and cheap,
but cheerful

had it pinned,
carefully,
on the lapel it was,
of her sky coat

the coat was charity too,
reminded her
of her grandfather,
something about a smell,
a catalyst for
long forgotten memory

he had smoked a pipe,
fragrant tobacco,
bought in town
every Saturday morn,
when she was a little girl
it was

the grandfather
who
had held her little hand
in his big gnarly one
gently
as they walked

the old man
who
one day
when the peace cracked
flew.