Hands of my father

Hands of my father. Hands of my gran

Hands covered in skin tissue thin

When you press them they wrinkle and shine

Hands older than time.

Hands that are scarred. Hands that are skilled

Hands seasoned by a life’s work run

a dab hand at giving pleasure

also good with a gun.

Hands that know hard work and know how to have fun

Hands that have cherished a newborn

And grieved a stillborn or two

Hands that are warm

Hands that are well worn

Hands that have saved life

Hands that have held those taking their last breath

Hands that know pain

Hands that will always tell when it will rain

These hands are the hands of my clan

A reminder of my past

Hands as unique as a finger print or eye scan

Hands so familiar yet still I pause to reflect

These are the hands that want more than anything my child, to hold yours again.