19.11.09

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.