Wednesday, 5 September 2012

Tools





Tools

 
The workshop is quiet now.
 
Rust, dried blood and a smell that stings the eyes.
 
Metal corrodes slowly beneath stale fluid.
 
A patchwork of stains.
 
 
 
Concrete once only smelled of paint.
 
 
 
And now ...
 
Dust particles cloud the air;
 
Sackcloth discarded; torn to shreds.
 
Old blunt tools that have never tasted wood,
 
Or steel, or stone, or oil.
 
Rust, dried blood
 
And bone.
 
 
The workshop is quiet
 
For now...