It wouldn’t do
To rewrite here the shorter poems
They will have a separate volume
Presently I sit on a chair
Sculpted
From a single piece of wood
Such satisfaction for the carver
The shaper, the sander
The smoother
Yet now, out in the long summer of sun
The wood is dry
Cracks are widening
Yes, there is a scent
Of eucalyptus, though
I fear the timber needs more than a whiff
I myself bask in the sunlight
Listen to the laughter
In the nearby tearoom
Where once, so I fancifully presume
The artisan craftsman
Took his well-deserved breaks
