A tender look at family, ageing, and the gentle freedom found in grandparenthood from one of Liverpool’s community storytellers…
Tom McClennan is a Liverpool storyteller in every sense: a retired English teacher, a poet, a playwright, and a fixture in the local theatre scene. As chair of the Board of Trustees at Valley Community Theatre, his commitment to community art is as deep as his love of words. Valley Theatre itself is more than just a stage — it’s a charity that’s been a cultural anchor in Liverpool since 1994.
McClennan has had his plays and poems performed on its boards, crafting dramas that don’t shy away from real lives, raw truths, and quiet poignancy. His writing, influenced by decades of teaching and a deep curiosity about people, always carries a sense of kindness and honesty — you feel his care for the characters, and for the audience.
The poem you’re about to read comes from a tender, wry place: the bittersweet reality of watching children grow up, and the strange solace of becoming a grandparent. McClennan knows that “no-one can stop children growing away from you,” but with grandchildren, there’s a remarkable gift: you can hand them back. There’s love, yes, but there’s also freedom — a chance to reconnect, without the full weight of responsibility.
It’s a simple observation, but in McClennan’s hands it becomes profound. There’s warmth in the farewell, a touch of melancholy in the return, and an elegant recognition of the cycles of care and the gentle release that comes with age. His words don’t preach or moralise — they reflect, they sigh, they invite you in.
This poem is for grandparents, for parents looking back, and for anyone who’s learned that love isn’t always about holding on tight — sometimes it’s about letting go, and still being there.
YOUR HAND
Once upon a time, when we reached the kerb,
I would feel your hand slot quietly into mine,
like a warm piece of jigsaw.
It never chafed or fretted. You never felt ashamed or embarrassed or beholden. It was automatic.
You never cross the road without an adult.
When did my grip become a burden? Your hand a weight tugging at my arm.
It’s your child’s hand I hold now,
Reaching up to me from below like a distant memory,
Taking me back to those days long ago.
I’ll hold it as long as I’m able.
