The Work of Hands

And once the father frowned
As the boy struggled to fasten
The drawbridge on his fort.
‘He’ll never be any good
With his hands’ he declared,
As if the boy wasn’t there.

And once he beat the boy
For palming a Dinky toy
His mother refused to buy.
She prised it from his shell
Like fist, saying he’d made
Someone called Jesus very sad.

And once the father crafted
A fancy hat; a bowler turned
Octopus, brim sawn off,
Eyes painted on the crown,
And a cut-up hose for tentacles.
The boy marvelled at the wonders

Conjured by his father’s hands
While he, now grown, could only
Point to passing things and ponder
How the work of days and hands are many,
Love pouring through them and from them,
In ways a lifetime cannot fathom.

Gary Day is retired lecturer. He is the co-editor of two volumes on Modern British Poetry and his work has appeared in several magazines including Acumen and Beyond Words. His poem Against Daffodils  was short-listed in the 2024 Vole Poetry Competition.