Old Doc Wilson had great rough hands
With knuckles as harsh as the rocks
That work their way out of the land
After each winter's freezing shocks.
His skill was not in gentleness
Or the fineness of his touch
But he could make a poultice
That would cure a body of much.
He knew the ache of rumatiz,
The jutting of a mangled bone,
The mysteries of birth and colics,
How and what must be quickly done.
And he would come out any night
In the clinging mist or drifting snow
Or sit alone in oil light
With bag and book in a cold home,
Just to see a man set clear
And out of danger's way.
So Doc's hard hand was always near
And never seen to shake or sway.
He pulled many a young un
Who could not come of its own accord
With the skills of his arms
And the mercy of the Lord.
His was the hardness of a land
Born of mountains and tall rocks,
Kept by the daily work of hands,
So made of stern and steady stock.
By David King
Copyright 2004 by David King.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.