my grandfather was a carpenter
an artisan of chisel and plane
toiling knee deep in wood shavings
humming to an invisible tune
in older age he sang
melodies from his homeland
a trembling range of one octave
each note evocative
his true love was poetry
memorised from youth
voice modulated
to ring emotion from every word
his voice is still heard
in the scent of forests
the soft burr of song
and the rhythm of words
I'm posting this poem as a first draft as it still has some distance to go...
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For some reason I'm yet to fathom I'm unable to reply to comments left by others so thank you for dropping by and taking the time to read and comment. Merlene