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poetry

The Carpenter

“The patient chisel wastes no wood”
remembered, his father’s words,
a repetition, forefathers passed
each, the careful craft adjusts
slow, the steady, almost silent graft
of rhythmic hands, huge, hard as oak,
calloused bark, yet soft,
the often gentle touch,
shaving, planing curls,
almost delicate,
some bevelled, smooth,
edging lines, straight to curves,
mortise to tenon, turning
burning, shadows to the wall
from flickered lamps, and still,
the work goes on,

A labour of lost love, always
, the back of his mind, his son
left this trade for new worlds,
new minds to find, seeking warmth, hoping
but only cold, hostile tongues,
strange beliefs, men
without word or honour,
of a time, a world, not his
beauty, unspoilt by cynical eyes
his cloth and seed, surely
the best of efforts, deserved,
his wife, mother, silent now, just watching
a spirit entombed in wood, growing
taking shape, a soul knowing
the pain of every strike, every blow
a tear inside, but necessary,
death respects no man, unprotected
so the work continues, unabated
without compromise, pure passion
for centuries imitated, never surpassed
the cross of love.

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