The Craftsman

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His preference is the light of day,
Cold northern shafts that survive the filters,
Of dust draped cobwebs, so long undisturbed.
Tools of the trade,
Such precious possessions, so protected,
That even cruel, grasping bankruptcy,
Can never take or claim.
These are things of beauty, some old and passed by time,
Held, used, cherished and polished,
By those that plied his trade, generations prior.
Once yellow boxwood, colour warmed,
Fed by knowing hands dirt sweat stains,
Impregnating, jewels that catch the light.
Brass bands and polished steel,
Oiled and sharpened, worn and used,
Each a personality, a much love friend.
There are so many, cobbler and smith,
All share one union, true pride in all they do.
Brothers all, alone, silent slaves of excellence.
This one I watch, writes in copper plate,
Silver is his paper, a burin is his pen.
Effortless effort, as swirls and complex decorations,
Mark his easy progress, till mesmerized,
We believe that we could do the same.

  • Date: 22nd July 2015