Hands

I continue my struggle with words and images. I was not satisfied with the window image so instead worked on a poem about hands.

The main issue I have is with my scruffy handwriting - although when I posted a photograph of this poem on Twitter Ian McMillan poet and presenter seemed to think my scrawl was acceptable - I'll take his approval.

The poem was triggered in my mind whilst washing my hands in our 'tired' bathroom - tired is the word used by people who want to sell us bathrooms - it is circa 1980's but with some arty twists.

Remember that bitter east wind - well I'd been working in the garden, my hands were very cold and washing them under hot water made me realise how privileged a thing it really is to have water on tap and a roof over my head.

Here it is in more legible form which is a revised version which needs to be edited on the fresco !

Giving Thanks

As I washed my cold hands under a hot tap
I gave thanks for hot water
Thanks for the old bathroom with its 80's tiles, sink and bath.

Do I thank myself for earning enough to pay a mortgage ?
Do I congratulate my work ethic ?
No
I am grateful beyond the material

Perhaps I should thank the stars - but they are without conscience
Boiling gases from the beginning of time

I thank a person made in heaven once called the bright and morning star
Perhaps not as tangible as THE stars
Or a mortgage
Or work
Or even the sweat of my brow

I recognise in this moment that I do not live on bread alone
I see a man not a vaporous God
Not an ether or a cloud
His hands were pierced
Strange that he is not a woman - perhaps he's not read his twitter feed

How do I know this is genuine/real ?
Well, this morning washing my cold hands in warm water
I felt embraced
Whole
Regarded
As I acknowledged how this one small comfort is monumental
Elemental
Grand
Warm water on cold hands
Sheltered from the east wind

I gave thanks.

So more work to do on the words

Paul.