In the heart of emerald fields so green, Where horses race under skies pristine, Grandad whispered tales of victories past, His voice now part of the winds that last. In bustling markets where flowers stand tall, Their vibrant hues casting spells on all, A stall blooms with scents of rosemary and thyme, Echoed whispers of an old man's rhyme. In Ireland's embrace, where the wild rivers flow, Grandad's spirit races, forever aglow, Through tracks of memory and rows of blossoms fair, A legacy of love lingers in the air.