Sparkling, long, and flowing soft, and shimmering through a comb,
A little hand ,with love,caressed each strand and knew a home.
Her eyes alight with awe to see the splendour falling there
in the magic that was moonbeams, that was grandma's silver hair.

A web of love she wove in it when plaiting it each day
and trapped the little heart that had no other place to stay.
Grandma lent her patience to the comfort of the child
and just let the little fingers roam about at eventide.

Then when the mane of moonbeams had been prettied for the night,
the child would hold that rope that led her safely to the light
of a heart that filled to bursting, and a safety so rare,
in a world that was upended, save for touching grandma's hair.

The years flew past, as swifts in flight to greet a summer's day.
The little child grew up and left the nest to fly away
to do great deeds of courage, and to plant some seeds of care,
letting other little fingers weave their patterns in her hair,

just like grandma, now long gone , had done so many years ago,
she helped them braid their patterns, and encouraged them to grow
to be full and loving people, and to laugh and share and play.
So the lesson of her grandma's mane of moonbeams lives today.