Wear and tear

The scythe maker is long gone, but his bench carries the scars of a lifetime's work, each hollow imperceptibly worn over years by habitual placing of familiar tools. I don't suppose he ever saw the sawdust as the smooth dents developed, or was even aware of the gradual wear and tear. Hard to imagine at what point he first noticed that the surface was changing. And was that point a single moment, or a thick blur of weeks ?

You almost want the bench to speak, to betray past conversations, share happy laughter, pass on the gossip of decades.

And it's hard not to think of the day this bench was first delivered, as someone ran an admiring calloused hand over its smooth gleaming deal.

And thoughts come of my guitar fingerboard, rosewood furrowed behind each fret by forty years of lost tunes disturbing the air with laments, jigs, reels and songs.

And maybe one song fits the inescapable erosion of living

In the clearing stands a boxer and a fighter by his trade
and he carries the reminders
of every glove that laid him low
or cut him till he cried out
in his anger and his pain
"I am leaving, I am leaving"
but the fighter still remains