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Ten grubby little fingertips

     Are washed with loving care.

Tiny hands will stretch upwards,

     Seeking things to share.

 

Hands that want to touch and feel

     Those new things all around.

Hands that seek those things above

     And those things on the ground.

 

Hands that haven’t done much work -

     So smooth to human touch.

There are many years of work ahead.

     Till now they’ve not done much!

 

A small hand nestling in Mum’s hand:

     You’re walking off to school.

But tomorrow you’ll be all grown up

      And hand-holding’s not 'cool'!

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Copyright on all my poems

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