Rough hands

Its dark as he enters through the sliding back door,

He's tired and hes distant and grumpy and sore

I want to jump in and tell him about my whole day 

but iv still got that pile of washing to fold then put away

He sits there so silent he's deep in his thoughts 

I'm still rushing around feeling ignored,exghusted, distraught 

His dinner is ready the kids are all fed

Its now time for their bath and teeth then bed

He's eaten his meal with not even one word said

The boys are both tucked up asleep now in their beds

I miss him I think but I'm also quite mad 

Yes I am the mum but he is supposed to be dad 

Then a thought starts to hit me as I stare at his hands a story can be told from this now sleeping man

They are hard working hands all calloused and raw his hands tell me something I didn't think of before

I may not have asked for these lonley quite nights 

But the scarfices he makes are no small sight

Hes up before day light, he's out till it's late

Works like his prison ...he has no escape

I forget all the things he misses out on 

the league games, the outings, so much time with our sons

I know that he wishes he could be with us more

 but he carries on slaving just a little bit more

He puts us first really in the strange sort of way

He's out working hard for his family day after day

I'm grateful I married this tired selfless farmer

He wears his devotion to family

 as his armor 

I couldn't ask more of this silent sleeping man 

My man with the rough, calosed, sore looking hands

He's doing the best that he possibly can

I need to be patient and try understand 

How hard it must be being this tired working man.