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His Hands
Big hands, strong fingers, salt soaked,
Sore from hauling pots and lines.
Wrists rubbed raw by oilskins chafing.
Muscular arms, shoulders and back
From pulling oars, heaving nets.
Strong legs set wide apart to counter
The roll and pitch of boat beneath,
Seaboot-clad feet.
Hands capable of sculling with a single oar
Or feathering it so lightly
That salmon would almost leap into his net.
Strong hands with a vice-like grip.
Yet gentle, so gentle, to bear a child aloft,
To carry him shorewards, through treacherous surging tides,
Across sea-washed scaurs and beaches
In the sheltered bay, between high cliffs
That lie along this rock-strewn coast.
Amidst all the vagaries of the weather,
Through sun-kissed days and black stormy nights.
To carry his son safely home.
His hands bear testimony to his past,
Big hands, strong hands, scarred hands
From salt water boils, fillet knife slashes,
Rope burns when he paid out a line too quickly,
When he was young.
When he could splice a rope, tie a knot, weave a net, bait a line
With his strong, nimble, dextrous, fine-tuned hands,
Capable of any task they were set.
These skills he learned from his father
He would pass on to his sons.
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