He would work the whetstone,

He would work the whetstone,

There was an art to it

Keeping old cutting tools as keen

As mustard

As grandad used to say

When he was still toting a tot of rum

In a hipflask

To perk up his morning coffee

Giving it a little vim and vinegar.

Nobody says that now

Although it is a well-seasoned

Malaprop

But the grass is still hand cut

With a sharp scythe

Long slow sweeps from side to side

As smooth as chocolate

The steak knives cut through fillet

Like butter

And he has the scars to prove

How sharp they were

“What’s the point of a knife

Without a blade sharp enough

To slice off a hand.”

He would laugh

“Respect your tools

Before they get a taste of your blood”

He had a way with words

But the old jokes get no better

With repetition

His tools were oiled and cleaned

Every time they were used.

He would tend to their needs

Whispering under his breath

Whistling as he worked

Laying them down like children

In their beds

Wrapped and swaddled

Until the next time, they were needed

Handed down

Through generations

Until the use of them was forgotten

By all but a few.

Bradawls, claw hammer,

A wooden mallet and framing square

Something gets lost

In the rush to farm out

The old skills

To professional craftsmen,

Who make a living

Doing what the old boys do for love.

He was a patrician, a grandee

Of the old school,

Watching was an education

There was pride in a sharp wood chisel

A neat fitting tenon

An old chair

Repaired

As good as new

For the folks next door

Just to save them a bob or two

When times were hard

The smell of linseed

Elbow grease and dubbin

A splintered old willow

Signed by Dennis Compton

Propped against the wall in the corner

Where we played yard cricket

Against the coal house door

As grandad wiped his face with an old rag

Laughing like he was the real Santa

In disguise

And perhaps he was.