I ease my spokeshave from the box in which it lays
with many others of its kind and shave the oak into stays
and tenons for the sockets of another wooden stool.
The bronze is smooth now; polished by my own rough hands through many years
and so I press in thrusts, repeating strokes until the curled shavings come complete
and tumble to the earth beneath my leather clad feet.
Then back, I stroke again and there again, like music on a written page
I shave until the notes take shape as melody well played in sympathetic harmony
twixt bronze and steel and oak now shaped and shaved in wooden staves.