Hands, Hands.

Hands, hands,

mauling my food, my arms,

my sleeves as pale grey eyes plead money without words.

Hands to heart, a handshake.

A hand grasps a baton, a sniper rifle. A camera.

Hand s seize my soiled clothing, mime ‘towel’ in a comical dance.
Hands that are graceful, hands that are modest.

Hands that work hard.

Hands reach for unrequired change, hands that beg a bribe.

Hands hold reins, tightly.

Hands that fumble with unfamilliar currency, freeze in the frosty air, finger foreign menus and find taps unforthcoming.

Hands pour tea, pass bread.

Hands are hospitable.

Hands that held this country hostage have let it fall. Hands now dust off a nations pride. Hands will rebuild, refashion, restore.

Hands pull muddy boots over wollen socks, haul heavy baggage and close the hotel door.

Wave goodbye, hands.

And don’t be tired, be health.