Misericord Carver Seven hundred years and some ago, his last Tap coaxed out a curl of red-gold Oak to make the scoop of the ladle: the scold Paddling her husband, a fist of hair fast In her grip, Gyp the dog arse-up in the pot, Getting the best of it, while the snug Domestic scene, all upside-down, erupts Into all Hell. Next stall, Reynard the Fox Is hung by a lynch mob of righteous geese And chickens, all bead-eyed in triumph. And I touch the wood, feeling the plump Nub of the woman’s polished, shining cheek, The ripples of Bold Reynard’s brush. Just So would the carver all those years before Have stroked his work. Time spans the touch, And fingers read the carver’s braille, more Subtle than any words. Feel this curve, this ladle, This cheek, this pot, this fox, and understand How Time and all its multi-coloured dance, Is nothing but the works of hands and days.