License: Creative Commons - Attribution-Share Alike Author: Giles Watson
It was plashed with light when I dashed upon it -
A woodsman’s glade – a calm arrangement
Of objects - the half-finished fence, woven
Of withies, the lathe, the rude enclosure,
And the dying light, spinning its own
Craftsmanship amongst the leaves.
The hazel coppice, a hidden dell,
Was squirrel-scolded and jackdaw-chattered;
Wood-pigeons uttered auguries,
And the so-called world, paying its tithe
To finance and to terror, hung muted.
When all of those are gone, and men
Are thrown back on their own resource,
The one who worked here will bend to making
As ever – or if not him, his daughter,
Shedding her shavings to the loam.
Our inventions will be as foam
On a remorseless sea, but she
Will plant one foot on ground, the other
On the treadle, and send
A spray of shavings to the ground,
A quieter world awaking
To the rhythm of her making.
Poem by Giles Watson, 2011.
A film and reading can be seen here: