My Mother's Hands

I've been very touched by the amount of people who read the story in the Irish Examiner and who've made contact with me in one way or another. 

It got me thinking about a poem I'd written a long time back. It was about my mother's hands. I realised I didn't have a copy of it anymore, but like all words that come from a place deep inside, they never really leave you. 

So I've put the poem below. I hope you enjoy it. The angels referred to are the two children my mother lost. Many others have suffered too, but here are a few small words about her. 

The image below is of my Mom as a young girl. At the very bottom are YouTube links to Mount Pleasant Buildings and the poverty within it. Thank you.

My Mother’s Hands

Her hands held little fingers with cold front door keys,

wrapped a red coat over, 

protecting me from more than rain,

pushed prams, peeled spuds,

no lady hands, but lady owned.

skin like alabaster, soft not weak,

hands of pain, hands of an optimistic soul,

sprouting blood bubbles in pin-pricked old age,

folded quietly in gentle melancholy, 

stolen by her mind’s disease,

in death as in life, 

angels drawn.

Part 1 of 2 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jJhtNOkB07I

Part 2 of 2 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9t3L-FPpd9U