Grandad’s pipes were on parade,
a rack of five on the mantle piece.
No two were alike, but all were used.
Mostly wooden, but a clay one too.
That smell I remember, to this day,
sweet vanilla tobacco, in a cork lid jar.
His fingers would hover over each pipe,
choosing the one that’s time was right.
Scrape out the bowl, then open the jar.
Pinching tobacco, between finger and thumb.
Pushing and tapping until the bowl was full,
Pipe now clenched between his teeth,
a match was struck, his lips now puffing.
A wall of smoke filled the air,
hiding nicotine stains, that were already there.
He puffed for a minute or maybe two,
then with a cough, he tapped it out,
Then placed it carefully back, on parade.
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