Iron Works
A hardship without words
To communicate the rush
Of unfielded thoughts,
An idea blinked from a corner,
A conceptualisation lifted up
And set upon the wind,
But all made with your hands
Or these hands, (or my hand that wishes to touch
Yours and reach across this space, for what is space
If it is not the distance between you and I?).
I watched a man of religion
Wearing smugness as uniform
That suggested he had practised this look for years,
There are no tears for all the people
He has terrorised with his quiet reserve
And unbroken psalms:
And he has created all this only with words.
It was this idea – the pursuit
Of meaning and definition
That has exercised so much control;
It seemed that if I stumbled
I would need your hands to catch me,
But my hands express my world,
My hands move like words to reach you,
There are endless, mechanical
Creations of hands: iron works,
And the works of these days and hands
Are soft and gentle in the ironic
Making and breaking of ourselves.
