In all the photos I recall
She never held my hand
I think it was coincidence
Rather than intention.
I didn't even touch hers
Beneath the taught white sheets
In Abergavernny hospital
Where she lay, still, dying.

A modicum of herself
Though clearly still her,
Still and barely breathing,
But still fully recognisable.

Hands have always been
Another sense for me.
Not only the feels of touching
But the language that only
Fingers can understand -
As unique as their prints.

Perhaps some fingerprints
Are like magnets that either
Attract or repel.

© Griffonner 2025