Hands are replicas of life –
are life:
they start out wrinkled and soft,
end wrinkled and soft;
show treachery, savagery, gentleness
of spirit and of flesh.
The fear of life is in them:
raise them,
and you will see blood pumping, but wrinkles
forming, and time rending,
and vigour upending;
that most malleable of body parts
can caress, strike fear in, bludgeon –
they really are unpredictable,
aren’t they?
No comments:
Post a Comment