My Father's Hands

My father’s hands are made of softest leather,

Sand and paper as they rub together.

Door jambs round his nails to scratch and pick,

Drystone hands with callouses to click.

My father’s hands hold putty knives and spades,

Carve motorboats in sand, and sharpen blades

on whetstones — penknives, chisels, secateurs.

My father’s hands peel oranges and pears.

My father’s hands could stroke a gentle night into my hair,

Or grind my head far down into my neck

Or hold my fearful heart till calm,

Or flick a burning ringing in my ear.

My father’s hands are making rich brown soil

And greeting worms he once would demonstrate.

My father’s hands’ one final act of toil —

Making compost by the graveyard gate.

My father’s hands’ last will and testament —

A share, a portion of a tender home,

But genes, a more enduring document,

Leave me the legacy of the man

My father’s hands.