My Father’s Hands. Poem by Ellen Devilliers

'Hold on to my hands.'

My father’s gentle hands,
Worn by work, a craftsman’s hands
Tapering fingers, an artist’s hands
Were those I watched with fascination
Were those that held mine, a child’s hands,
Washed by them with such attention.

Those hands that in my last memories I held
And asked him for more time,
More time to hold on to them,
More time to hold on to him
Just a little more time.

Generous as ever, he stretches out his hands
To me, a woman now, no longer the child
Whose hands he washed so delicately
Yet still needing that final contact
Still needing to hold his hands
For just a little more time.