Wood transforms itself under my touch
Whether it be hard olive or mountain pine,
Something I never questioned much,
Belonging to a carpenter’s long line.
I love the scent, the texture and the grain
Revealed by my steady and knowing hand
As I make things both elegant and plain,
Polishing with oil and smoothing with sand.
When I first saw her, troubled lass, and lost
Already big with child and destiny
I loved and married her, there was no cost,
I reckoned she would grow close to me.
And these workman’s hands must now I know,
Help this miracle to thrive and grow.