Elderly Craftsman at his Bench
At my worn workbench, in my bent body,
I am disturbed occasionally by an alien fantasy.
Always the same; the detail surreal and distinct:
a soft arm reaching toward me
out of nowhere,
the fingers closing and opening.
I believe now that it is an appeal
from serious efforts, like my own, reaching
unfulfilled from somewhere in the past,
and have learned to put my work to one side;
to relax; and think my way back
into the depths beyond their origin;
appealing to their source to call them back.
Tell them there is no peace here.
And comfort them on their return.
This restores a serviceable calm,
so that I can attend to my work again.
Hoping there will be a like thoughtfulness
for me and my concerns when the time comes.
Copyright © 2011 by Thomas Kinsella
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission