Far off, a timber mill saw whines
As my grandfather never did
When his burnt down, but went straight in
To underground mine labouring with
A heart condition at the age
Of sixty-five. The photograph
I have of him—stern, squarely hewn—
And look at when a poem won’t work,
Except as paper to feed flame,
Is adamant with “Never let
The Tree Of Life, no matter how
Perverse and frustrating of your
Desire to carve art from it, get
So much as a squeak out of you,
But dig till what you write’s as clear
With truth as shovel’s shine from use.”