The sculptor

His hands, that is what I saw first.
Fingers as fat as sausages
And palms the size of shovels-
That could pick dark holes in the ground.
He rocked to and fro
With the gentle caress of the carriage.
Fingers browned, strong
Like my grandfathers.
Workers hands, hands that had
Been caught between a train and it's carriage with nothing more than
A grunt.
His shoes, old and worn ,
Brown and brogued
Spoke nothing of the greatness of
This man.
And his dying eyes, languid and yellowed
Held me with a deep passivity.
His face lined with the events of life
Reflected nothing of the busy carriage,
As a tear ran down his cheek.


London Feb. 94