22 July 2012
A man, of sorts, sits up high,
Looking down at all the passers-by,
A lump of wood in his hand,
He whittles away, like it's planned,
Meticulous invention of shape,
Monsters and angels formed,
All part of the same escape,
Whittling knife in his grasp,
Sitting up there on his arse,
Letting sculpture form and dance,
A movement in wood, they prance,
Two tiny figures in ancient grain,
Fuelled by thunder and rain,
Sparks of crackling light all around,
Creation, a birth, he astounds,
Looking down at past projects below,
His very own little wooden show,
The textile in his hands taking form,
Twirling and sharpening in the storm,
Two pieces split off from the chunk,
And fall to the earth with a 'thunk',
The man, of sorts, a smile on his face,
As the two set off to find their place,
They walk away, opposite paths,
One day to come together, again,
The whittled creation of two halves.
Whittled • Opuss № I