A poem for my grandfather (RIP)

So this came out of nowhere today. I was at work and started thinking about family history, then a vivid memory of my grandfather came to me. In the back garden of the house he built he had an extension with a small workshop where he'd spend most of his spare time. He's been gone for over 30 years (when I was 6), but I hope he'd appreciate this.

In my grandfather’s workshop
The sweet smell of ingrained pipe tobacco and sawdust.
Small and crowded, but organised
Tins and jars, nails and screws, paints, tools, lacquers, solvents from companies long out of business.
The windows covered in dust and grease, but still allowing light enough to see his craftsmanship.
He fixes, he builds, he improves,
Gnarled knuckles and large square fingertips as strong or subtle as needed for the task.
The squeak of the vice, the rasp of sandpaper,
Of all the things he built, I appreciate my memories the most.