Those Hands I knew as a boy

They gave me the gift of time, those hands.

Turning over fossils, reading millennia like braille.

Pointing out constellations and meteors.

Slowly making smashed treasures whole again

with painstaking stillness.

I watched them as a boy, in awe of their size.

Gripping the steering wheel, driving us to mountains. Oceans.

Leathery. Big, turgid veins like bouncy-castle ribs.

Always busy, winding sweet peas around garden canes,

Sewing intricate stitches, busy-fingered and as intent

on his target as a Wellington bombardier.

Holding books by lamplight, with the swift flick

of a page. Never still. Ever seeking

to make things Ship-Shape

and Bristol fashion.

 

Copyright Tom Tide 2017

 

 

 

 

 

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