Tug Dumbly # 35 - Touch

Touch

She cut his hair weekly

in the garden sun

or at the kitchen table

with the radio on.

It hardly needed to be done.

He had little hair to speak of,

more a grey grass skirt semi-

circling the waist of an egg.

But the ritual was ingrown

and somehow the more redundant

the cut, the more precious the touch.

She took her time, for time they had.
He’d close his eyes as her hands softly fussed,

positioning his head, brushing his ears and cheeks,

snicking the iron millimetres with

beautifully precise scissors.

He didn’t say much, and if she spoke

it was in a low tone that he yet felt

vibrating through her frame, when her

big body leant in to make contact with his.

He loved most the finishing touch

of electric clippers

tickling his neck

droning about his ears

like a little didgeridoo.