The Woodcutter

The woodcutter.
In his little cabin.
In his little wood.
Both on the side of an expansive moor.
His dogs… his many dogs,
Scream at the morning’s half-light,
And my passing tiptoes.

He works all day — at his keen distance
From the town three miles below.
The trees shield his labour and sweat
From the stragglers on the hills.
He carries on, in rhythm with his body
And the surrounding air.
Sensing the deep flesh of the trees
And the dull thud of the axe.

On his goes. And on he goes.
Until his allotment of labour
Pays for a short future.
And I hear, at a small distance,
Both his work and the curlew
In harmony and at one
In this early-morning scene
Of nature, man and labour.