Whittling

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Whittling


Whittling shavings drop

And dry,

Eventually to rot and dust

And return

To earth where they were once green

And strong, that strength now gone.


The knife cuts cut

And now

Dying wood, Its sap stickying

On the blade,

And darkening in the sunlight;

Its own sun-light setting now.


We pass as wood passes,

And dry;

Eventually to rot and dust

And return

To earth where we played

And laughed; that laughter silenced.

 

From an idea that struck me on the drive home from Bangor this morning. The picture is of my grandma Harvey and her mother, taken many, many years ago in their backyard in Smethwick. 

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