Here’s the true story – why?
When I was 18 I went to a little place up north near a small town called Glossop.
I went with my then girlfriend – now wife, Angela.
Sadly my step grandfather, Harold, was suffering the last stages of cancer.
My Grandmother suggested that I could go and chat with him in his room.
He was in bed sat up. He had a notepad in his hand. He was scribbling words and invited me in to sit with him.
There was a northern music band called “Five-penny Piece”.
He’d written a few songs for them and he was penning a few lyrics to finish off a new song.
He said the words out loud to me, asked me, how does this line sound.
There was something so beautiful, he was dying, but found comfort in the words he wrote.
I never forgot those few moments I spent with him, I think perhaps it affected me more than I knew.
I never saw him again after I left his room.
My family tend to humour me with the music I create – it’s a lonely thing – people do not have the sense of things really.
I often wonder if I was destined to do something akin to this, I’ll never really know.
One thing for sure, the contradiction is clear. Such sadness interwoven with such beauty, I never saw this again, so far anyway.
At peace now with his words, god bless him.
I wrote this song after thinking for years how I could come up with anything to explain it…
Here’s my humble effort, lacking, but it took almost fifty years.
Michael Forty.
Song Lyrics
Notepad in his Hand
Verse 1
I was eighteen, up near Glossop town,
A borrowed room, the curtains down.
He sat upright, thin as air,
A notepad resting in his care.
Verse 2
The pen moved slow, the page held tight,
Words still asking to be right.
He read a line, then looked at me,
Said, “Tell me son, does this sound free?”
Chorus
He was leaving,
Still choosing words.
Still making sense
Of what hurts.
If this is dying,
Then I understand—
There’s peace in ink,
A notepad in his hand.
Verse 3
Five-penny songs, a northern voice,
Lines he shaped, not for noise.
No fight left in his fragile breath,
Just language standing up to death.
Verse 4
I never went back, I never knew
How close that moment cut me through.
But I hear him now when silence lands,
Asking softly, “Does it stand?”
Chorus
He was leaving,
Still choosing words.
Still finding light
In what hurts.
If this is dying,
Then I understand—
There’s peace in ink,
A notepad in his hand.
Bridge
They smile at me, they let me play,
Say it’s nice, then look away.
But some of us are wired to hear
Beauty when the end is near.
Final Chorus / Outro
He’s at rest now,
Work complete.
Every line
Still at his feet.
And I carry that room
Where I learned who I am—
From a dying man
With a notepad in his hand.
Michael Forty