Honed

Healey Dell Viaduct photographed Summer 2010
This is a poem about my dad told through the tools of his trade.

 

Heavy wood, dark with age
Corners worn off
By Time, by use
By His hands
Inside the stone
Flat smooth
Glistens grey green
The sweet smell of oil
The swooshing, sliding, grinding
See those firm hands gripping
shaping, honing
His dry skinned palm
Rough and faded
Tests the edge
Sharp and precise
A few more stokes
A wipe, a polish
Mirrored
Reflecting
I replace the wooden lid