Hands that are withered  

From toil and pain 

Wring briskly together 

In his silent domain. 

For years he has struggled 

To always be there 

But now sits alone 

In an old rocking chair. 

As his lips softly move 

If you listen… you’ll hear 

The sounds of a prayer 

For his loved ones to appear. 

But as the day slowly ebbs…  

As evening draws nigh, 

He stares through the window 

With a silent goodbye. 

Antony King 2018

4

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