CARPENTER
He cannot see the trees for wood: his brain
strips off their bark, saws planks from elm and beech,
observes, across a field, the tiger-grain
of oak, signalling tables, chairs, as each
waves to his axe, his mitre board and plane.
That night he eats off forests, timberlands
spread through his house, leaf from his shelves and bed;
he combs his daughter's hair, he understands
the awkward knots, the dove-tailed plaits: her head,
ash-fair, grows smooth beneath his working hands.
