Armand in his atelier
Le croix de Cathar



As the tiny rivers

Winding beneath

Papery thin skin

I watch as they have slowed

But remember their faster pace                                                    

Armand et Auguste


As the plastic cannula

From oxygen tank

To your nasal orifice 

Easing each breath

Your hands reach for me

Offering each cheek to be kissed


As the dancer

In the flames

As you welded and forged

Iron and steel into magnificent forms

Gates, railings but also art

A band of musicians

Prominent upon your mantel

My own, croix de Cathar

A gift like your friendship


Bleu shall forever

Be the colour of you

Increasingly fragile

As you reach out for Auguste

The great-grandson who shares

Your sparkle from cobalt eyes  



Hands Of Time

“Pick my left pocket of its silver dime, but spare the right – it holds my golden time!”  – Oliver Wendell Holmes

“The whole life of man is but a point of time; let us enjoy it.”
– Plutarch (46 AD – 120 AD)

“As you grow older, you will discover that you have two hands, one for helping yourself, the other for helping others.”
– Audrey Hepburn

Hands of time

Tick, tick, tick

The hands on the clock

Hands swift

Hands almost still

Fleeting moments of childhood

Chubby dirt encrusted hands

Grasping the giant monarch butterfly

Perched regally on golden buttercup

“Pretty mommy!”

My eyes rush to freckles

Smudged with earth

“Yes, very pretty!”


Glistening sunlight laced

Through copper curls

Tumbling down emerald slopes



Rolling from side to side


Time belongs to you my child


Hands move briskly

Time goes so fast

Larger hands

So sure is his grip

On the shiny red two-wheeler

Copper curls flying in the wind

“Watch me mommy!

See me go!”

“Yes I see”

My heart quickens

As I watch you ride away


The hands move

With increasing speed

Strong sure hands

Now larger than my own

One encircling my waist

One upturned – palm outstretched

“Car keys mom, got a date”

The copper darkened, slicked back

And in style

As you rush out the door

I turn to the clock

Anticipating your return

The hands move so slowly


Faster, faster

Those hands on the wall

Your hands firm, steady

Entwined with fairer ones

Her blonde head rests

On your shoulder

Mixing with copper waves

“Mom, we’re in love!”

Orange blossoms fill the air

As early June sun

Trickles through stained glass

Your faces beaming

For a brief moment

The hands stand still


Hands move with unrelenting swiftness

Mature gentle hands

One caressing scarlet down

The other held captive

By a tiny fist

“Mom, isn’t she beautiful,

She has your smile!”

Choking back tears of joy

I nod in affirmation

Admiration for unjaded

Eager hands


Hands move with increasing uncertainty

Its message

I bequeath

Vigilant hands

Your hands – supporting my hands








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