WORKED THE WOODS.
Pleasant labours on nature's growths,
Over years now past,
Return, in countless thoughts,
And stimulate odours, sweet still.
Look! Massive stately towers, felled,
For usefulness, not props prematurely cut.
See there! Their quartered stacks,
Soon, fine furniture shall be.
Many shaping, jointing, for our
Working warm sinew and tool;
Around drawers, legs of elegance or plain,
Else cunningly supported otherwise.
Considering now, the drawing tight of
Of bead and butt, flute and reed, and mitred care,
Then, flushing smooth, with steel and grit,
of ways unseen.
Mindful too, matching cuts, wafers of
On panels coated with melted crystals
From creature's bones pervading disapprovingly
My memory's senses as I write.
The silken curls that rounded into
Cut by wide sharpened blades,
Rising up into soft scented fountains,
Blending beautifully in whites, yellows and reds.
Making their escape past moulded
Encased in wooden blocks held tight with wedges,
Gathered like drifts of gold and snow,
Shot out from the mouths of roaring monsters.
Musing still, of tools belonging to
From chests of treasured devices,
Stored within secret drawers for the experienced,
Entering in the play, craftily cutting another way.
With steels that often scarred the
For bright edges against harder grains,
Much less for the white, softer kinds.
Memory fades, but the written word keeps them safe.