Manacled, the Hands

Manacled the Hands.

Manacled the hands

Which intertwine with one another now,

Hands that come to grip with issues

Locked within the soul, somehow.

 

Manacled, the hands that hold her

Manacled in blood and bone,

Hold the baby’s head so gently

Veined and scarred with love intoned.

 

Hands of strength that strike the anvil

Shape the shoe to fit the hoof

Hold the stallion’s head commanding

Strong control to stay aloof.

 

Hands that wield the sword of vengeance

Hands that feed the wood to fire,

Work the field with ox and plough

Stroke her body to desire.

 

Veinous hands, so strong and calloused

Locked within his every day,

Hands that clap to merry music

Hands that to the piper pay.

 

Hunter hands to snare the rabbit

Catch the carp in yonder lake,

Pen the words of love to paper

Knead the dough of bread to bake.

 

Quiet hands that rest in evening

Sitting by the fireside,

Listening to the snoring hounds

Which on the mat, asleep, reside.

 

Manacled, these hands, he ponders

Locked within the ways of sin,

Reminiscent recollection

…Quiet smile on whiskered chin.

 

Fingers cooled in fresh spring water

Feel the rays of rising sun,

Stride across the purple heather

To hand, a wondrous day begun.

 

 

Marshalg

FOXGLOVE, Taranaki.

4.20am 17 February 2013