The Carpenter’s plane massaged the rough wood,
With great sweeps he ripped and tore,
And wafers of creamy-wood shavings fell,
Like leaves in autumn, trodden by feet.
The Carpenter’s arm kept pace with his breath,
In rhythm with life and in harmony with death;
Hacked down by the skill of the lumberjack’s roar,
Felled by the growl of the motorised saw,
Biting, chewing and splintering white,
Cut down like soldiers in the hundred years’ war.
And from tree-feller’s maw comes the delicate touch,
Of the Carpenter’s hands, caressing the wood,
With broad strokes and eyes like a preying hawk;
The wood descends,
Further still, from its life-breathing air.
Because from nature, was born a tree,
Now destined to be paper,
Or once stained, a fair table or bureau, for the pen to lie,
The foundations of man in his puny façade,
So the word is death to his majesty the tree.
But the Carpenter breathes life and hums a tune,
And the forlorn again is transformed,
Elevated once more,
Among the clouds and dizzying heights where,
The tree once stood in tangled roots.
And the Carpenter’s hands never winced, never waned,
To cut and shape in tireless bounds,
Until the new wooden form emerged,
Graceful, regal as Royal Oak wood;
As his majesty become a dresser, a wardrobe, a table and six chairs,
Transformed, transfigured and sold to the highest bidder.
So the tree lives on in naked wood,
But the Carpenter’s plane lay still these days,
For the same wood he stripped with tender care has,
Become his embrace, forever and ever, Amen.