The Last Craftsman

Mike Bell/ April 17, 2016/ www.mikebellpoems.com/ 0 comments

Table-trapped,
In the heaving,
Squeak-stepped,
Sports hall
(A premature fest,
Of seasonal fayre),
He was creating,
With hand-sure tool,
Under engraving eye,
Time-etched deep,
In long-crafted care.

In these shipped
Next-day,
Of rough imports,
(Lined up,
Trophy-thick,
In our matching homes),
We wonder,
With heavy,
Catalogued-thoughts,
If we are better
Than those,
The Jones.