Asking Feelers.

 

I talk to my hands and ask them

to tell me what they have felt

in sixty years and more,

A million mugs of steaming tea

barrels of porter in pints

the handle on my fathers door,

and the grip of many a spade

shiny with spit and sweat

from biting the sticky clay

to find the golden wonders

and black champions,

the twine on bales of hay.

Footballs with laces

the reins on the stubborn ass,

diamonds, hearts and spades,

screwdrivers, saws and hammers

handlebars, saddles and pumps,

razors with throwaway blades.

Shakes with other hands

“I'm sorry for your loss”

countless hello's and goodbyes,

brylcreem and carbolic soap

Windsor knot propping Adams apple

buttons on schoolboy flies.

Ash plants on bullock backs

the mane of a white-eyed ass

foot stretched neck of a goose,

the profile of scratchy stubble

the slap of another wrist

twin fists turned loose.

The turning of calendar pages

and leaves of all those books

fiction of poetry and prose

the weight of the gravel earth

at the grave of parted friend

the ritual of putting on clothes.

The feel of my children's faces

the crossing at Angelus bell

pulling the belfry rope,

the fingers of a lovely woman

twining in a casual touch

delivering a message of hope.

The good the bad and the hopeless

they've felt, the sun and the rising damp,

the flick of a switch, then light.

The power of the beating pulse

at wrist, and heart still ticking over

when eyes won't work in the night.