The Man With The Golden Hands Poem by Lone Dog

Louis was his name;
Driven from his Polish homeland
By the ravages of war,
He made his way to freedom in England,
Where his talents were quickly put to use
Supporting the war effort.
After the war, Louis emigrated to Canada.

Louis was a man blessed with golden hands;
Hands that were resourceful and strong and skilled.
He could build or fix anything
Down to the tiniest detail.
He was meticulous.
He was a master of perfection.
How I loved to watch him work his miracles
With those skilled and artful hands!

Louis had a noticeable kindness about him.
He was a man who cared about me
When I was in my youth;
When I sorely missed the warmth and love
Of a mother and father
And lacked the confidence derived
From supportive birth-parents.
I sensed his love and caring.
I could hear it in the warmth of his voice.
I could see it in the sparkle in his eyes when I visited.

From his dying bed he asked for me,
But I did not go.
I don't know why.
Perhaps it was my youth.
Perhaps it was a fear of facing Death again.
I don't know.
But I know that I loved him
And I miss him;
The man with the golden hands.