Grandpa once told me a magical story
About an old vase he used to have
It contained a cluster of petals, he said
With a silvery tear at the corner of his eye,
And wisps of thinning, greyish hair on his head.
Grandpa told me the petals were beautiful
Covered in a swathe of dazzling colours
That bounced off the sunlight into his humdrum room.
They were the different spectra of the rainbow
They were the warm feeling of summer.
Grandpa said life was like that vase
Different flowers, different shades; different colours, different days
Intricately linked together like web
And if you viewed the vase with the eyes of a bee
Then the petals are like a song of honey - or a portrait of grace.