“In Good Hands” by Helen Moore

In Good Hands

by Helen Moore

 

You see these, she says, hands

rising into the lamplight

from her dappled lap,

their contented coupling

parted for a while – 

palms up, her fingers stick out,

callused, knobbled at every joint,

like a pair of Willows pollarded for years.

In each basin curved lines with tributaries

(of husbands, daughters, a guardian angel),

are streams viewed from high in the hills;

their backs speckled Blackbird eggs,

nails horned as Donkey’s hooves.

Fearless hands that grasped Nettles

(if you hold your breath they won’t sting);

that saved seeds, grubbed in the ground

for Potatoes, Parsnips, Pignuts;

picked Rosehips, Blackberries,

and never mind the scratches;

snipped Betony from the waysides,

slipped stems into mossy pockets,

wound them out again,

fresh as water from a well.

Those constant hands that cored

Spartans, Pippins, Russets,

delved deep in sticky dough,

bounced pies from the oven;

that fed the birds, darned, soothed,

rubbed olive oil into the raw, new

skins of babies; made haphazard

hospital corners, put out huge Spiders

and Small Tortoiseshells, placed

Cowslips on the graves of village people – 

Like this, her fingers interlock

to form the church without the steeple.

In our Earth everything fits together just so….

Solemnly I stare at their curved surface

settling back into her dappled lap

as if in silent prayer – in good hands

I learned to care for every sacred being.