Thursday, March 26, 2009


My Grandmother Louise.

I remember her hands,
work-worn and scaly
against my feathers.
Daily scrubbed in service
when she was a young girl and
never idle a moment.
Working fingers. Lean, like her voice,
always correct and
always correcting me, sharply,
best as she knew how.
Hands that bathed me.
Hands that chastised me.
Hands that fed me, filled my own
with the strength a child needs.
Hands that loved me like her own.
Hands that knew pain; that felt,
through the hardy skin,
her love, only one, lifelessly
slip through her fingers
(to rest her hands from his weight)
Hands that touched winter
and denied the cold,
half-way to heaven as the knuckles
told her life in knotches.
These were the hands that shone stone
for a living, a lifetime;
the hands I remember
ground to the bone.

By Alex

my beloved husband who passed away 27th March 2001.


  1. I have only just now found you. A truly original blog. Very impressive.

  2. Welcome to this blog Dave, and thankyou for your generous comments.