WOOD.

You lose yourself

In this job.

It’s a rhythm.

The axe and the hand take over,

Lift.

Drop.

Split.

Your mind roams free.

You’ve been doing it like this  

For years

In the same place

With the same chopping block

From the same stack of logs

Using the same squeaky wheelbarrow.

Perhaps the axe

Has had a few new handles  

Maybe you’re not quite as strong as you used to be

But 

You’re the same man

Standing,

The same man

On the same earth

Under the same tree.

Now you lift up the axe

And it drops

Perfectly.

The log splits

Exactly

Down the middle

And

You’re as happy,  

In that moment

As any one man

Has a right to be.

22/3/06