These Hands ( a mother's love)
These hands that held you close
Upon my
breast.
The
first moments when you breathed.
Those tiny hands
Wriggled and giggled with life.
Those hands enclosed by mine.
Our hands entwined,
Yours placed tenderly in mine.
That first day at school.
I let go of you at the gates
And with a wave ‘goodbye’
You disappeared inside,
Our hearts still joined in
apprehension.
These hands that showed you
How tie your laces,
How
to brush your teeth,
How to wash your hair.
These hands that signed the letters,
brought home continuously from school.
So I could give permission
For the trips that had been
planned.
And wrote countless notes
To explain your absence once again
When you were too ill
to rise.
These hands caressed your head
And tucked you in,
As you lay with fever, hot and
restless.
These hands nursed you through
The long watches of the night,
And cooled your brow and stroked
your hair
To bring ..Oh , such small comfort.
These hands folded tightly in
prayer,
I gazed into your fearful eyes,
No longer able to touch you for the
pain.
Instead I fluffed your pillows
To make them softer
Or turned them to make them cool.
These hands sewed patches
On the jeans,
You insisted on wearing again and
again.
These hands cooked your favourite
cakes,
The ones topped with chocolate
sprinkles and cherry.
These hands would throw and catch
and play,
And lift you from the ground
When you fell and grazed your knee,
And wiped away the blood
Amidst the tears and pleas,
And put that big teddy bear plaster
Across the wound
That made you smile again.
These hands that scrubbed,
And washed and dried
Those muddy clothes
Thrown carelessly on kitchen floor
After every match you played.
These hands that drove you
To your very first interview
At university,
Then many miles more,
Along endless motorways and country
roads
To hospital appointments,
Airports and holidays.
These hands are old now,
Bony, twisted, gnarled.
Barely able to hold yours.
Those hands clasp mine,
Hug me , hold me
,
Give me hope. Make me smile.
Those hands make my pillow,
Stroke my hair, tuck me in.
Now these hands lay still beside
me,
Never again to hold or touch or
feel
In this present world,
But then to clasp my Maker’s,
Restored, renewed, revived.
To wait ... but for a little while
Until our hands once more
entwine
