The hand that came through

The hand that came through

I never drew a hand that day,
I only let the colours run,
I watched them twist and find their way,
Not knowing what they would become.

The blue came first so cold and deep,
Then red came rushing through my mind,
Like something waking from its sleep,
And leaving little signs behind.

I never planned the thumb I see,
I never told that hand appear,
But there it was looking back at me,
So strangely close and almost near.

A hand came reaching through my art,
From somewhere I could never know,
It seemed to touch me in my heart,
Then whispered softly let me show.

Perhaps my eyes just found a shape,
Among the colours running free,
But still I couldn’t look away,
That hand kept reaching out to me.

There seemed like faces hiding there,
And shadows moving through the red,
A bird was flying through the air,
While silent words stayed left unsaid.

I turned the picture round and round,
And every time I looked once more,
Another little shape was found,
That I had never seen before.

Was it my mind that made them live,
Or something hidden in the paint,
I do not know what name to give,
To every figure pale and faint.

But I know I never drew that hand,
At least not knowingly that day,
It simply came where colours ran,
And somehow chose its place to stay.

So I won’t change a single line,
Or paint that strange old hand away,
Whatever brought its shape to mine,
Can keep its secret there today.

For art can sometimes speak so loud,
Without a single spoken word,
A hand can rise out from a cloud,
And make you wonder what you heard.

And if that hand came reaching through,
From spirit, memory, heart or mind,
I’ll leave the answer where it grew,
Inside the art it left behind.