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One Day

I will get around to cleaning one day
Sawdust and bits all dusty and grey.
I’ll get around to cleaning but when
Before I reach three score and ten

My piece of heaven but then again
Would I be able to find things then?
Boxes of sandpaper used and worn
So devoid of grits tattered and torn.

Chisels I’ve just left on the bench
Part bottles of polish some French.
Work pieces still clamped in the vice
Consistent, but not neat and precise.

In the cold lathe a part turned piece
Come a day could finish that at least.
With cobwebs it looks Oh so forlorn
A mantle place it should surely adorn.

Again to myself I will often say
Tidy up yes! Nay, chuck it away
Odds and sods of Elm and Oak
Each with its purpose bespoke.

In the corner wood that is hard
Wood that’s seasoned in the yard.
I will clear the rubbish all away
But say with a sly grin “one-day”

* * *

I have always had an affinity for wood, at school I dropped out of the woodworking class because I did not like the teacher and did metal work instead. When I left school I worked as a woodsman clearing woodland during the winter and then planting young trees. In the spring.
No need to send for the men in “White Coats” when I tell you that the wood talks to me. I believe every piece of wood, even a dry (dead) branch picked up from the ground has a ‘spirit’, ignore the spirit of the wood and no matter how skilled you are it will never look right, that may sound like an excuse for poor work to some but it is not so.

I sometimes wonder if there is some Master plan for life. I first used a lathe at school and worked in a machine shop from which I gained the skills needed to turn wood latter in life. It is also possible that the trees I planted thirty years ago and have now been harvested have ended up in my workshop.

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