Hands by Richard Green

I am not a silent poet

My grandfather’s hands lived for sixty odd years.
They had no forced smile behind which to hide their pain.
Cracked, calloused and stained with blood and tears.
Black, coal dust roadmaps replacing sunken veins.
I held his weathered hand just once in my childhood years,
reflecting on the residue of soot and tobacco stains.
Black-brown arcs of earth behind each broken fingernail.

I hold out my upturned hands and stare, steadfast,
at where once- hardened skin now smooth and pale.
They hide all evidence of a different, distant past.
Their privileged surface tells another tale.
No coal to scrape or iron-work to be cast.
No splintered placards on picket lines to sail.
These pampered hands belie a bloodied past.

..

Richard Green – Yorkshireman, Poet, Writer and Spoken Wordsmith.
https://yorkshirepoetblog.wordpress.com/

View original post

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s