Robert Nisbet is a Welsh poet whose work has been widely published in both Britain and the USA, where he has twice been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
He eased the plane, stroke after stroke,
along the wood, the waft of curling shavings
always an enrichment, the scent of new and good.
He had weeks for working on that table,
for care, for crafting, the joints, the dovetails,
dabbing the glue, the smell of assembly.
When she returned, she loved the table,
it had been a promise, and they'd sit there,
supper times, while he fetched for her,
cooked a little, went out to feed the chickens,
quelled the dogs' odd barking (a passing fox),
checked her medicines. Tended.
And when, years later, seventy years,
Moira came to sell her grandparents' table,
she wondered at the price they were offering,
if she was letting it go too cheaply.