Monday, 16 January 2012

Hands

I liked holding

His scar armoured hand

That could easily kill me

Or anyone

Who hurt me.

Hands I'd seen break the calm in two

Then mend it again

As I tore up another page

From the rule book.

My paper cuts hardened

And Dad hammered away the same

I never looked for a boy

Who was like my Dad.

And if I cut him by leaving

Neither of us said

We felt a thing.

And now after illness

And splintered relations

It's his hands bleached clean

And defeated

That retrace the scars of his lifetime

In my head

And I wish we could

Step down from our standards

Before it's too late.

Can I throw you the rope Dad

And see you half way?



2012

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