The Gift 

                                                                                                                      

“You have his hands” they say.

Blunt, broad, and strong;

the rounded nails and heavy palms, his grip.

Some memory, stored within each line,

each fingertip, each scar, from half a life away.

Old-leather hard with work and age;

weather-carved and worn with every stone

he lifted, shifted, placed with care,

deliberate as fate. The walls still stand,

no mortar taints their bones. A fossil

skeleton of ancient land and shallow earth,

where grey sheep band to shelter in their lee.

His lifelong craft a legacy of landscape

and perspective. Scrubbed each night,

as if in shame, they rubbed the aromatic

filling for his pipe, and whispered of his day.

A dead thumb, once crushed, tamed

and tamped the sparks into

the glowing bowl. Their touch and warmth

have left no marks, no dusty, half-remembered

scent of shaving soap or soil. I wear the gloves

unseen, and proud. Their heavy knit a map

of toil, and quiet love.

 

 

Authors note: This poem was sparked by a chance remark my Mother made. My Grandfather was a mason by trade, and skilled in the art of dry-stone walling. As I child I would sometimes accompany him to work in the Peak District of Derbyshire. Each time I return there the walls he built and repaired are a reminder of his enduring presence - both in the landscape and my life.

 

Incidentally (and I have no idea who the author is) there is a short ditty regarding this ancient art:

 

Ode to a dry-stone waller

 

I am a dry-stone waller.

All day I dry-stone wall.

Of all appalling callings

Dry-stone walling's worst of all.