My grandfather was a man
of brutality etched on a tanned face
that looked coldly at the world.

His wife was silent under the
chill dark shadow that hung from
his presence and held her down.

My visits to his house were short affairs
centred on cream cakes, half smiles and hugs
from grandma, who cried when we left.

She was a frail little woman with
beautiful hands, and his hands were
thick and strong and rough to the touch.

He soon took to his rusted cold shed
when we came to visit, and I was frightened
to see inside, to see his green eyes alive.