Those hands Speak more than does the face. They clasp or lace, They grip or poke Hold firm.
They open in enquiry Or close to form a fist Or furl and unfurl to try and give the gist Of some internal land.
Those hands I love Are square and brown With rough and bitten nails. The finger ends are blunt, The skin is coarse With work. Those hands are always warm and strong And mine in his makes me a child again.