Poem ‘My Father’s Hands’ by Lyndal Vercoe

His hands were broad and square, articulate and clever
Cracked and blackend from years immersed in grease
And solvents - while solving internal combustion problems
Left his nails hard as horn, and fissures running down to the moons.

His tools precisely hung above his bench of kerosine-soaked wood.
His overalls smelt of petrol and hot metal
His spectacles were pitted by sparks
His thumbs pierced each day by fine metal filings.

And in the evenings, by the kitchen fire, with fine tweezers
Or a needle, together we would work them out.
Then he showed me how to knit.