I stood and watched my dad, entranced,

as he chiselled a hole into a table's leg.

The chisel was a wand in this strong man’s hand,

As he strove to make that table stand.

 

His hammer met the chisel’s head, precisely,

Time after time, and time after time again,

carving and slicing into the wood’s bright grain.

Until he brusquely brushed the shavings away,

Like a conjuror performing his trade mark trick,

as a perfect mortise was revealed below,

 before a hand-sawed tenon was glued,

and slotted in, hard tight.

 

               I looked on, amazed,

dumbfounded, at what my dad could do

with two bits of wood, and a smidgen of glue.