by Richard Vince

She never saw them in winter;
Ravaged by the wind and weather
And made to look older than
Their still tender years.

She never saw them in times
Of darkness, when they crazed
And cracked like a dry river bed.

She only saw them in the
Nightclub half light as
We edged ever closer to
The inconceivable: something I had
Wanted for longer than I realised,
But hid from myself because
I knew it would never be.

Perhaps that was why it
Never was. If I had kept my eyes
Properly open, would I have seen
What was happening instead of
Focussing on something too distant
To be real?

She never felt their touch on
Her skin, but sometimes I look at
My hands, and think of her,
And smile as I remember that
She liked them.


Posted on 08/02/2013
Copyright © 2022 Richard Vince

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Kristina Woodhill on 08/06/13 at 06:44 PM

Working hands, I would say, well described. You bring to mind the wonders of touch mixed with longing. Thanks for this.

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