Hope for the world

His hands dig in the earth.

He raises his little earth covered fingers to show his Mum.

His hands clap together in delight.

His hand rests in the jaggy black and brown pelt of a passing goat on a spring morning.

He gazes towards the hills whose colour is changing to red and purple, as the cyclamen unfurl in the light.

His hands shove his friends as they jink between the adults on their climb towards the city.

A flash of black on white catches his attention and he lifts his hand to shield his eyes, 

watching the swallows swoop and dip around him.

His hand trails through the water of the river. 

A test of temperature before his whole body is submerged in its flow.

As night falls his fingers draw shapes in the desert sand. 

He holds his breath at the sound of a pawfall and the swish of a passing caracal's tail.

His hand clasps a girl's hand as he helps her to her feet, 

while a chaffinch churtles outside her window. 

His hand picks a grape from a vine, 

rips bread into pieces and passes it to his friends.

His hands are stretched lifeless on a slab of wood.

In the stillness under the earth his hand lifts the edge of the sheet, 

he gets up and heads outside.

His hands dig in the sand at the lakeside. 

He raises his sand covered hands to show his Dad,

and to wave at his friends who are lost on their boat on the lake. 

This is a morning transformed by hope.

Hope for the world.