the wood shop
the wood is milled
with focused irish eyes
greenish gray orbs
full of times past fire
wood glue hardens in his nails
as the sections are set
it seems to be as if
watching an entire lifespan unravel
like aran yarn-
spun and then put away
the process itself
has been lost to time
a concept voided
by new-fangled ways
like a gregorian telescope
nothing is infallible to time
the wood shop
stays behind the present
abhors the future
watches the world break down
then gladly puts the pieces back together
burnt kindling and coal
goats milk
fried boxty and black pudding
freshly cut dew dawn grass
(the smells of childhood)
god rains down on the
raised heel roof
he sits and looks at the sea
looks so far that he
he forgets where he came from
knows only where he soon shall go
when the sun came into the shop
he smiled slowly
everything was ready
his last breaths
labored
his soul rose slowly-
to the place he never really believed in
but knew he would finally go
the shop it will stay behind
collecting dust
until the next
comes to fix her up
snow will fall
the winds will whip
the sun shall shine
the flowers will rise
and generations will break down
and someone else will put the pieces back together