Hands

I remember my Nans hands,

They werent photographic

they werent perfect or manicured

or spotless or aesthetic

They had broken nails

a few scars and were often caked

In cooking or earth, in water or cleaning

They upheld this woman and held all its meaning

She was someone who toiled for the good of the land

and cupped my face in the palms of her hands

As years fell away, her hands sometimes buckled

dropping glasses and plates and she would chuckle,

that she was butter fingered but we all knew the truth

her hands had given away from her internal youth.

Some hands will praise you and some will chastise

But Nans were ones of comfort and calmness in my eyes

Of someone who had lived her life as she should

Who had worked and cared for the greater good