Thirty thousand years ago, give or take a few,

Leaving handprints on the wall was quite the thing to do.

(Nowadays of course, like so much else, it’s just taboo.)

We don’t know why and never will, but sometimes when we glance –

From Spain to Argentina to Australia to France –

Stenciled fingers decorate an underground expanse.

If you and I could grab time’s thread and wind our way back then,

Past great migrations, wars and famines, threats round every bend,

We might well find a forbear there preparing to descend.

Lamp aloft with guttering flame, our cousin heads below,

Stooping, scurrying, skidding down to get out of the snow,

Inside she crawls into a grotto quivering in the glow.

Looking for a perfect wall on which to place her hand,

A cavern’s canvas rising from a floor of rock and sand,

Framed by ornate pillars standing silent, strange and grand.

Pressing palm against the stone, showering it with rust,      

Then packing up her tool kit and brushing off the dust,

She heads back to her hearth, her place of warmth and trust.

I stand now where she stood back then, shivering down my spine,

Wishing I could touch the wall and place her hand ‘neath mine

And establish a connection ‘cross millennia of time.

{Photo taken at Gargas Cave (France), April 2023 (photo is of a replica handprint because photos were not permitted inside the cave]]