Life experience is something I haven’t witnessed, the fitness of waking up and going back to bed 50 years on the trot.
But I look to my father’s hands and see all twelve-thousand morning mists he has seen.
A gristmill heart, grained hands and workshop walking feet are all hidden from view.
He writes in capitals, written with precision, and crosses the T’s as he goes along,
So not to prolong the sentence writing chore, making more time, conjuring up the minutes to potter around and mend unbroken objects. - Life experience is something I haven’t witnessed, the fitness of waking up and going back to bed 50 years on the trot.
But I look at my mother’s hands and see remedies read about in those magazines, all to look younger in the staff canteen.
A watermill heart, smooth iron fingers and contoured, sculpted chiselled corridor feet are all hidden from view.
She scrawls her sentences; they become the tide hiding letters and numbers in the swell of punctuation and dotted I’s,
The T’s cross themselves and she moves on, another phone call to attend too or a new BBC this-time-more-accurate historical drama to view. - Life experience is something I haven’t witnessed, the fitness of waking up and going back to bed 50 years on the trot.
But if you keep on going, stay out of strong sunlight so not to rot, those years will pass as a striking blur leading to coastal Big Sur roads, where the next 50 miles bring just as many smiles as the last 50.
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