Idle Hands
What more
than idle hands
that make good on promises professed
by guides beyond us?
From somewhere long gone
or not quite here,
our shepherds scheme
to pull us near,
to deliver us from pretence,
and coax us to expose
the parts that we deem pitiful,
too fragile to disclose.
Then we, our shepherds’ pilgrims,
surrender to their force,
flowing with their ancient drift,
like tides on lunar course.
But in these waves that guide us,
our ghosts repel the flow,
yet as they fight,
this current calls:
your freedom’s not my foe.
An anchor’s not a tether,
you can’t hold down the sea.
When waves collide together,
their waters still run free.
So let these hands
be instruments
to those who know the score,
those who see our idle hands
and dare to ask: what more?
What more there is
than letting go,
and yielding to a whim,
to ripping out the curtain
and letting light slip in.
To slowing down,
and lying back,
and taking in the view.
I crack a smile,
and realise:
I could get
used to you.
Becky Tudor is a self-confessed poet and chronic romantic from the North of England. She is currently studying a MRes in Social Research at UCL, whilst working as a freelance writer and sharing her poetry with journals and magazines.
