Palms ridged, callouses like
Swirls of raised gold.
They were used to work,
Those hands. Days of hard
Fast labour and crashing
Into bed at 2am.
A workman's hands.

Slim fingers that trace
Delicate patterns into my skin
Hands that have seen soft
Hours of sunlight
And books and music
A pianist's hands

Large and veined, but
Never clumsy. Those hands
Of yours that counted the beat
Out on the wood
Of our table. Still, for hours,
Yet when needed they are quick,
Making light work of saving lives.
A surgeon's hands.

Stroking noses and playing catch,
Holding the littlest ounce of love whilst
Still climbing the unclimbable the
Ridges of a spine. Counting time
And ignoring the lines that appear
As though cataloguing our every move,
Every thought.
A father's hands.

The End

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