Some of them I met

When I was young

That generation who would

Cut and plane and measure out

With little folding timber rulers

Inches feet and yards

All down through the days

Of my father's time.

1 watched him once

When I was five years old

Making windows for Danny Hanlon's house.

The sound of sawing in the shed

The plane swishing down across

Made curls of wood

Fall down around his feet.

I picked them up in my small hands And can still smell the sweet pine scent My father smiled down at me And made a wig of curly wood Hang down around my ears.

Sometimes still I see him Marking timber in the shed Counting out his years and days Until shadows from a candle Flicker quiet across his face.

Deep to me his grave was dug Down into the August clay

Men cut the green grass

Straight with spades

They measured out the length and breadth.

Tight in my hand I held That folding timber ruler Then let it fall Down into nowhere To the clay Beneath his head.