Sometimes, by chance, because I have hot hands,
I hold the hands of old women, so thin and papery and cold,
as if you can feel life ebbing away already.
Dying takes a very long time for some.
Because of embarrassment, it is always too short a hold
but I would like my heat to course into them,
loosen their joints …..
A poem about compassion, ageing and love. Please read it here