The Penny Drops, Grandad

Cancer of the bone, some say the worse kind
They said eight month
Eight years his heart pumped
Sunday afternoon, sitting in his chair
Like a lion in his lair

Leaning with thick gardener's hands
On his pine, nobbly walking stick
His hair no longer thick
Head shining a few strands, a slick

Striped shirt sleeves rolled up
Springy metal holders up top
Arm reaches to table so long
Penny once held now drop
Where? Can`t find, it can`t be just gone?
His cheeky smile looks on

And on, I follow his gaze
To get through my oblivious haze
No way! Appletiser bottle atop
Go on don´t stop
His eyes say n` glint to me
Haha, yes, I see
I lift the copper, how could it be
There, so obvious, I laugh with glee