I watched him drive

the screwdriver into the wall.

Big powerful hands

fuelled by broad shoulders.

Whistling a dour hymn

as he worked, and I watched,

amazed at the might of those hands

but I didn’t let on.

He expertly chased in the wire

scratching with chisel,

thumping with ball pane

until, like a sculptor of stone          

his creation was complete.

All I had was words and a sharp tongue

But this was real skill.

A man who could make or fix,

a creator of real substance.

So to the man

Whose skill my brother inherited

This is for you.