These strange things that hold sentimental value,

Like my great grandmothers’ pocket watch,

It has one hand only to tell the time by,

It no longer winds or ticks and the silver case is badly tarnished,

Family jewellery engagement and eternity rings,

Gemstones missing,

The big old seashell my grandfather kept in the hallway,

That I used to hold up to my ear to hear the sea,

The old pencil sketches he made of his allotment,

Where we used to plant vegetable seeds together and watch them grow,

Kitsch ornaments that play musical tunes,

Old teddy bears, threadbare and stinking of age,

Knitted hand puppets made by my grandmother,

Stitches weak and unravelling,

A moth-eaten old Robert Burns Poetry book,

Dated 1896, with yellowed thin and fragile pages,

A rhinestone necklace that used to grace the youthful neck,

Of my grandmother when Clark Gable was her favourite actor,

The last time my grandad held my hand before he died,

Sometimes I can still feel his grip on my fingers,

I don’t think we ever truly let go, do we?