They’d go to visit,
get out that old jigsaw puzzle,
complicate things by hiding the cover,
“Going in blind, one more time.”
each would say.
Or with half the pieces in
half out the box,
with a lucky dip, followed by a shake
till seventy five “join ups” were made
inside a ten centimetre square,
multiplied by the root of nowhere
then, dependent on his mood,
divided by a length of subterfuge.
It was returned to its secret place,
to be re-arranged at a later date,
when they’d forgotten where it was,
tucked away, inside the shade,
behind the egg nog.
But the pieces wore out,
and grandad was placed inside his box.
Though he was still loudly shouting
as the soil was thrown down,
“Its where blue sky and horizon interlock.”