Builders
My father
Taught me the ways of
Knots and tools;
He showed me
How to whip a rope
With an old
Marlingspike
He’d salvaged from his
Years at sea.
He’d tuck the
Loose whippings under,
Pull them firm
And the frayed
Ends would tighten, stiff
As a stick.
Almost with
Awe he’d touch the tongues
Of chisels
And jackplanes.
He loved the feel and
Tang of wood.
His plane hissed
Down the long oak-grain
Spinning thin
Shavings up
Through the sun-shafts in
His workshop.
Then he’d squint
Down the plank, muttering
To himself.
He taught me
All the knots he knew,
And they are
Beautiful:
Sheep-shank, Garrick bend,
Clove hitch — all
Their forms like
Fluent signatures
Each with its
Character
And purpose. I
Practice them
Now, with my
Grandson, Nicholas.
He’s four. We’re
Working-men
Taking a breather.
I wonder
If he’ll learn
These old disciplines
Although, as
For the knots,
I rarely use them — yet,
When we were
Lost last month
In a black sea-storm
My clove-hitch
Held the mad
Sweep-oar we rigged to
Haul us home.
The tools, though,
Are a different thing.
I keep them
Oiled and honed:
Imperatives from
My father.
Ninety-four,
His handgrip still like
Carbon steel,
I call him
For his birthday: Ten
Thousand miles.
Good-day, there,
He says. Still got it ?
‘What?’
That knife
I lent you
Last year. Still use it? ‘Yep’
Good. Keep
It sharp, now.
‘Don’t worry. Hone it
Every day.’
He tells me
He plans to build a
Boat with wings
To lift planes
Downed at sea. He thinks
Of the dead.
‘Terrific,’
I say, ‘Send me all
Your sketches.’
I hang up.
We’re lying about
The knife. That
Was ’60,
Maybe ’61.
I lost it
Moving house,
Somewhere in England.
We both know
I’ll never
Find it now.
A man
Who touched words
Sparingly,
He told me: ‘Tools are
The point where
Geometry
Meets nature: always
Difficult;
Respect it.’
That was his own, and
Almost worth
The years of
Solitude, the pain
He never
Shook away.
With respect, I hand
My grandson
His hammer
And we both bang nails
Hard into
The big house
We’re building in the
Cedar-fork
With the birds
And spiders. I watch
His face as,
Frowning, he
Concentrates, and I
Remember
The clear blue
Gaze of my father —
At four, and
Ninety four.