The wood merchants son

We all mine from the seams of our childhood, mine followed the grain.

Wood was an element of my childhood.
Stacked by cord, wet or snow encrusted,
guarded by the fierce cry of Pheasants,
unseen, in the bare wood of Winter

Timber taught me patience in the cold,
the need to weight the action to the deed,
to seek the grains run, the shatter crack,
that sped the wedge along its track.

All attacks on the wood were with steel
splitting the cord by wedge and sledge
ripping the splats on the circular saw bench
then slabbing the logs with an axe.
Father would crack his only joke,
“There’s more than one warm in this wood”.

A wide dry ditch in an overgrown hedge
was the path to my awakening.
As I took my turn in our mutual dare,
tensed by excitements quickening,
flesh became wood when exposed to the air
and the keen inspection of the young girl’s stare.
Scrub Elm was the blind we viewed behind
and part of me remains there.

The wood merchants son
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