The last downsize.

[billy]

There once I cut the dried, dead poles of summer’s dahlia flags, where is there? i also stumbled with the wording though i can't point out why
and sulphur-stained I packed the corms in dessicated sand;
parcelled up in gift-box style for opening in spring. Some died, of course.
That was years ago; I left the knife, the grubby duster, the remnants of the year
upon the slatted bench. An ashtray, too, longer ago than I thought, i like the images of the last 4 lines. they're all work-shed or greenhouse and manly and aged
now topped up with wood chips; I can just recall the last vexacious turning
on my squeaking lathe. A source of pride, a single table leg; never again.

We will leave this place soon. Leave behind the tins and pots and poison jars,
the stiffened bristle brushes, kept in hope of rebirth and suppleness. Me too.
The chisels hang forlorn and yet still keen, never blunted by their purpose
in my time, yet sharpened every year, or so I tell myself.
It’s hard to say goodbye to friends like these. Solid, unchanged, ready for their task.
Like so many well remembered, but not seen for year on year, and yet
they will be missed. I cannot see that I will need them now; I once could.

What has changed? Them or me. It seems that waste is not the crime it was.
Out go the rusting nails, the slot-top screws….if only the cross-heads had not come along poignant, nostalgic and very sad.
this ethnic mix would, perhaps, be saved. No. It is time to go. There is always a time.
They rattle through the heap of broken canes, paint-stained cans, evil bottles, metal tube,
corroded iron, broken trowels, a million plastic pots ( I always kept just one or two)
and then silence. I am suddenly transfixed. This edifice before me is my life.
Or strangely, I say inside, my old life. A broken-glass picture tumbles down; my old dog.

Tectak
June 2012

apart for that 1st line that gave me a little trouble, i found the write to beautifully done, prose poetry at it's finest. i loved the narrative love and pride shown through a keen edged chisel. the questioning of progress as beneficial through a cross head screw, the feeling of no longer being relevant. some of the images are as keen as the chisel's edge. it's a poem i could fall in love with. sorry if i couldn't be more constructive via the feedback process, i'm not sure as i can see where it needs to be edited (apart from that 1st line.)

thanks for the read.