Quiet Hands

Her work worn hands are quiet now.
Something I never thought to see
She used them so industriously
no idleness would she allow.

Except on Sundays, even then
she used her hands to underline.
The tales she told of Holy Men
from the Good Book she thought divine.

Although in fact she could not read
her versions were from memory.
She still held firmly to her creed.
Her brand of Christianity.

Which she expressed practically.
Not words but deeds her chosen way.
In the event of tragedy
she offered help without delay.

She will be missed by everyone
whose life she touched in some small way.
or all the acts of kindness done.
To other people every day

Her work worn hands lie quietly
in prayerful pose upon her breast
As mourners pass respectfully
to say farewell as they think best.

24-Mar-08

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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