The Big Untidy Magazine

Giant’s Hands

My dad’s hands were giants’ hands.
Amber-tipped with nicotine,
Rough and dry like dogfish skin,
They lifted my tiny body to the ceiling,
Dropped me, chuckling,
Then caught me in tea-time ritual.

Hands that mended toys,
That baited my hook with wriggling things,
That once fired a gun at people,
That loved my mother,
That built sports cars,
That helped tell his stories,
That roughly brushed my tears,
That wrote betting slips with tiny brown pencils,
That never wore gloves,
That were always good for their round,
That moulded the soil,
That worked with honesty,
That punched a simple argument of men,
But were gentle with me
Until finally……..lost their grip and slipped from my hand.

Then with the love of generations
Passed along the line of men
Placed tiny fingers
In my giants’ hands.

- Darrell Mitchell