My father’s hand is resting there
As the whispering silence hangs
From a soft sigh in the air with
A voice that does not appear to be mine.
Flickering light from a failing lamp
Plays tricks across my outstretched hand,
Palm down upon the bench.
As a child my soft hand rested
In my father’s heavy palm.
Tonight, I see a contrast from time.
My hand now holds the strength
And I don’t hold his aging grasp the way I should,
A hand that fought without a blow.
Reaching out for help
Reaching to push away
Then call back close again.
A hand that has held and defended
The life it has given.
This is a hand that still needs your guidance
Resting, tanned in front of me
I study the contours in fading light
Under a landscape spotted and worn from a life
Traced with proud blue veins
Connecting lives the way I should,
Before the light flickers out.
I decide this is the time when a grasp will hold
A reassurance of warmth
An unspoken love and protection
A small hand in mine
And my hand in his.
Clive Grewcock is a writer based in the Scottish Highlands with a particular interest in language and the way it can evoke a depth and emotion through creativity. "Poetry has a wonderful power in our world, not necessarily in a shouting way but also with subtlety and asking others to invest and bring something of themselves to the work. It is good to contemplate and consider through writing."