My grandmother had beautiful hands—
silky, touching my face, touching the
cake that she decorated, touching
my feelings when they needed to
be touched; but they were fragile
hands, like fine glasswork that
cracked over time but could not
be repaired, for it was too damaged.
They used to touch the sparkling keys
of her piano with delicate strength
and with a passion that unfurled the
hidden rhythms of her creative soul;
but that is long gone and locked
away from the person that stroked
my hair with her long lively fingers
and said in sadness, caught between
the words, that she loved me still.
19/9/2020