Hands.

These hands,
these bonnie bairn's hands,
they wave and wobble, greedy
for the life they have, newgifted;
eager for the heady brush
of Mammy's cheek, soft as love,
and the strength of Da's chin,
weekend wiry.

These hands,
these ready Man's hands,
they grip, grasp, grapple;
leading always in work and rest,
cradling the green coffee-cup,
swinging a hammer from
day's dawning to whistle's howl,
to make his hearth strong
for kith and kin.

These hands,
these worn grandfather's hands
they have seen the ending of many years,
drawn down to the west, descending
in waves off the mountains.
They touch now the hands
of the son's newbrought son,
and give him the old
dragonheaded fiddle,
that has been played all down
the long years past.

abschweifen

Don’t wander too far,

little one, from your

wee world of pocket-

phones, pursehounds,

and bug-eye glasses. Don’t

wander so far you cannot

return to worship your

flat plastic god in concrete

temples, standing high as

watch towers to keep, guard

against that old world walled

out until grass unknown

grows in the potholes

and the butterflower

loses its grey shell

into the unkind park

of men. Don’t leave the

black webstrands to

drive down deep

tracks of dusty shale,

and be swallowed alive.

For the world you have

bound, beaten, and

buggered to make that

pretty picture under

your MySpace giggles,

still sits on the edge

of your civilized world,

Hungry.