MORE POETRY THAT STIRS MEMORIES

My adoptive mother was very wonderful and to be chosen by such a special couple meant I was a very lucky baby. I came across this poem by Anna Hempstead Branch called "Her Hands" and it made me realise once again how fortunate that this was my mum.

My mother's hands were cool and fair
They could do anything.
Delicate mercies hid them there
Like flowers in the spring.

When I was small and could not sleep,
She used to come to me -
And with my cheek upon her hand
How sure my rest would be.

For everything she ever touched
Of beautiful or fine,
Their memories living in her hands
Would warm that sleep of mine.

Her hands remembered how they played
One time in meadow streams -
And all the flickering song and shade
Of water took my dreams.

Swift through her haunted fingers pass
Memories of garden things -
I dipped my face in flowers and grass
And sounds of hidden wings.

One time she reached the cloud that kissed
Brown pastures bleak and far -
I leaned my cheek into a mist
And thought I was a star.

All this was very long ago
And I am grown, but yet
The hand that lured my slumber so
I never can forget.

For still when drowsiness comes on
It seems so soft and cool.
Shaped happily beneath my cheek,
Hollow and beautiful.

If anyone read this I hope they enjoy this poem. There is another that I also enjoy and will put that one on here soon. It is about mother again, and words.