In truth
he was somber
setting foot in the unused work shed.
Hand tools lay gathered together
worn smooth from years of use,
across the old scarred
workbench;

blades
capable of cutting pencil lines in half
hang from hooks, teeth sharp
oiled for packing.

The tang of timber lingers
in aged nostrils
as he packs tools, firmly in the toolbox;
he knows that young firm hands
on soft, hard-grained timber
will wrought there magic
not him.

Sighs, seeing
Queen Anne incomplete,
waiting in anticipation of someone else
to end her state of dress;
neatly he packs tools accrued
with a twist of his wrist the lock clicks
an end to years of toil
enjoyment.

The lid shut:
calloused hands lift the heavy box
in to an aged battered Ute,
he examines a mirror, himself young,
nods, watching the carpenter
with the fragrance of wood drive away.

In truth
he was somber.