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.