The Hands of a Man

These are the hands of a man
But I don’t know what that means.
These are not the hands of a son of toil
They have not worked the fields
From darkness to darkness.

They have not hammered out
Black gold from blacker mines.
They have not sweated rivers
In torrent to smelt and shape metal.

They have not saluted, or taken
The life of an enemy of this state.
They have not been clasped so tight
As belief in martyr’s prayers
Or held onto the rigging
As wild storms churned and boiled
Tossing their careless toys.

They have not stroked the keys
Or taut strings of beauty’s song.
They can’t paint the shapes of this world,
or carve from wood or stone.

They have not been the first
Hands to reach out in welcome
Across once-hostile borders.

They have held broken-winged birds
Blind kittens and newborn babies.
They have learnt the shapes of lovers.

They have plucked fruit from trees
And fresh grapes off the vine,
Chopped once-living flesh to feed
This endless cycle of living to live.

They have painted nursery walls
And held on tight, enveloping
Small hands to cross busy roads.

They have taken hold of these words
And slowly learnt the weight of them.
These are the hands of a man
And, still, I don’t know what that means.