Hands as Divining rods
The wooden boy’s eyes
discovered tears
when the tiny ballerina who
lived in the jewellery box – dancing
before a mirror in lopsided circles - resisted
his advances.
Pain seeped out – oozed in ovoids,
sticky resin slowly slid
down grained cheeks.
His wooden legs rubbed
together, calf to shin - a cricket
calling out
in a lonely summer’s field .
The wooden boy asked his aging father
might there be a sister
to share his difference with.
The hands held before his face
were old, suffered
little hand quakes.
Creation lasts only so long
before the baton must be passed on
for the next to make
of it what they will.
Tears continued their fall
qnd his legs wore patches
in his trousers.
Through summer evenings
the abrasive cry of cricket legs
were the only sounds he heard
as the boy tried to uncover the art
of dowsing a child from a chosen log.
Puddles of curled shaves
of wood
moved out from his feet
and spread across the room -
testament to continued failure.
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