In the twilight of the evening’s glow,
Grandad’s stories would softly flow.
His voice, a whisper of the past,
Telling tales that would forever last.

With hands that weathered time’s embrace,
He’d carve out love in every space.
A smile that warmed the coldest day,
Guiding us in his gentle way.

The garden where he used to tread,
Now blooms with flowers, white and red.
Each petal whispers his sweet name,
A tribute to his lasting flame.

Though he’s gone, his spirit stays,
In the laughter of our days.
Grandad’s love, a beacon bright,
Shining on in endless light.