Tools and their boxes
Moving into new rooms
Blinder than usual,
A white carpet sacristy
of muffled floorboard familiars,
The reassuring echo of my arrogance.
Trying this new vacancy on,
The fit and the squeeze
A reminder to unthink,
to draw in and unravel a string
way back to the knot of my father
all hard and defenced.
The bricks, slathered and stacked
gravel-clunked with the satisfaction of earth
into a wall of hollows and brittle ooze.
The bass thud of a plank
callus hefted and plumb eyed into place
his four hammer taps, an unerring morse.
From man to son, to son again
the wanting was mortared deep.
This ritual of making,
to fix an emptiness, dare spoken.
This is a thread still loose.
A toolbox sits in the dark,
softwood knackered and banged,
sawdust drawers of the remnants,
headless bolts and shaving curls,
a grit of paper,
a chisel thumbworn
five pencil blunts,
and the key for a door in Moneymore.
The tatters of a maker, now unmade.