With These Hands by Pam Ayres With these hands so soft and clean, On which I stroke the Vaseline, I soothe the fever, cool the heat, Lift verrucas out of feet, Slap the plasters on the knees, Dig the garden, prune the trees, And if it doesn’t work at all, I throw the mower at the wall. With these hands I crack the eggs, Floss my teeth, shave my legs, Write the cheques, count the fivers, Make rude signs at piggish drivers, Clean the goldfish, light the fires, Pump up half a dozen tyres, Feed the hamster, worm the dog And decorate the Yuletide log. With these hands I block the lens When taking photos of my friends, This is Mary, this is Fred, See their eyeballs all gone red. With them I gesticulate, I wag a finger, say, ‘You’re late!’ Throw them up, say, “Don’t ask me!” And, ‘What’s that in your hand? Let’s see!’ With these hands, I fondly make, A brontosaurus birthday cake, I’m sorry for the shape it’s in, But half of it stuck in the tin. I pop the corn, I pick the mix, I whack the cricket ball for six, I organise the party game, And clean up things too vile to name. No pair of jeans do I refuse, No Levis, Wranglers or FUs, I wash them fast, I mend them quick, I sew through denim hard and thick, For no repair job makes me frown, I take them up, I let them down, I do the fly, I do the rip, I do the knee, I do the zip. And with these hands I dab the eyes, Officiate at fond goodbyes, As in the earth we gravely dig The late lamented guinea pig. I bow my head, cross my chest, And lay his furry soul to rest, Reflecting that, on many a day, I could have helped him on his way. I greet the folks who bang the door, Fill the mouths that shout for more, Scrape the trainers free of muck, Gut the fish and stuff the duck, I cart the shopping, heave the coal, Stick the plunger down the bowl, Take foreign bodies from the eye And with these hands I wave Goodbye.