Jane Clarke poem is as quietly crafted as a product of the wood-carving trade she is abandoning. The poem comes from her collection, The River (Bloodaxe Books, £9.95), which won her the Listowel Writers’ Week Prize in 2014.
EVERY TREE
I didn’t take the walnut oil,
linseed oil,
~
the tins of wax
or my lathe and plane
~
when I closed
the workshop door.
~
I left the grip of poverty
on the bench
~
beside my mallet,
whittling knife
~
and fishtail chisel
with its shallow sweep.
~
I quit the craft
my father had carved into me
~
when I was pliable
as fiddleback grain,
~
left all at the threshold,
except for the scent of wood,
~
a different scent
for every tree.
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