The Work of Hands

The Work of Hands
Staring down at my creased hands,
I see a journey with tales embeded in every fold.
Mothers hands were worn and tired
reast on her knees on her apron.
I would notice them when she was sewing,
mending my clothes, darning a sock
or stitching on a button which hung by a single thread;
I felt safe when they were busily employed,
her rough, sore, sad hands.
Here I am with mine, ageingly flabby,
now for the first time, with long, manicured nails.
At sixty one I feel just a little bit more like a woman.
I wonder what mum’s hands would have looked like,
manicured and cared for. I wish I had known.

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