Hello, this is a poem I wrote and recorded about one of my grandchildren. I hope you enjoy.


In the hierarchy of sound
I place the ticking
of my late grandmother’s clock
as middle C.
The purring of Sooty
her black cat sits
somewhere below,
Its meow sits considerably higher,
as do all the sounds of Noah,
my grandson
now three months old.

Asleep on the smokey rag rug
the crackling pops and whistles
of the coal fire reassure,
as do the buttons, buckles, and RAF wings
I play with in their cream coloured tin.
I effortlessly slide from my childhood
to Noah’s as he lies listening.

I have no ticking clock for him.
Only my low grandfather voice,
and my burning desire to ensure
his life is full of music and me,
desperate to be his middle C,
wishing for him,
a world of beautiful polyphony.

poem by Neil William Holland. a.k.a. Soloneili


2 thoughts on “Noah”

  1. Lovely poem, real sentiments presented in an unsentimental but heartfelt way. Exactly the way most of us feel about our grandchildren, wanting them to experience all that has been important to us.
    You’ve touched upon three generations and connected them all so that the past mingles with the present showing that really, as long as there are memories, there will always be that thread that connects us.
    I remember rag rugs laid on red tiled floors and sooty bits hanging on the fire grate. You’ve jogged quite a few memories here. Nice one!

    1. haha, thanks for that Lynn, I’ve just had them for five hours (Noah has a sister now) and I’m shattered. It’s hard being Bob the Builder on the floor for about four hours non stop 🙂

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s