Hands.

The smallest hand reaches out, blindly,
And expects that someone will grasp it.
The child places his hand trustingly into
The hand of his companion, and walks on.
The girl holds hands under the desk and
Is sure that the boy she sits with is good.
The guy on his first date shyly grasps
The other's hand, and then smiles.
The couple join hands at the altar,
And vow to love each other for ever.
And then it starts again, and again,
A cycle of trust and love that we are
Taught to believe in, through books
And films and plays and songs.
And yet for so many this cycle is a joke.
For the refugee who reaches out into
The dark and there is no-one there.
For the man alone in a hospital bed
The harassed but kindly nurse can
Only spare a brief smile, and move on.
For the woman sat alone in an unheated
Room, wishing she had family somewhere
Who would call, or write, or even exist.
For the drunk on the street, cold, penniless
And hopeless, nowhere to go, nowhere to turn.
For them there is no cycle of certainty,
And for them, we are letting them down.

(c) 2ndwitch, 15/01/17