Well yes I do carve walking sticks
Not two or three hours
But more like thirty or fourty
But then I saw the connection
Between my poetry and wood
Each takes me into another world
Of rhythm oh so good

Where I hear you ask
Can this connection be made
A poem and a walking stick
This man is surely mad

But think dear friends about a how
poem does evolve
You start with just a single word
Then watch the poem grow

I walk in the woodlands
I walk the forest ways
And I see things
That you might miss
In the coppiced hedgerow lays

And so with my trusty folding saw
A wooden stave lies in my hand
Perfectly straight or warped
Wood, oh wood so grand

And so just like poetry the plan
Then starts to form
With penknife and a wood rasp
A walking stick is formed

Sandpaper grades decreased
And long hours pass
Eventually that rough hewn stick
Attains the sheen of glass

Yes I carve sticks with rustic pride
Never do I miss what the cuts might hide
When I write it is with love
I can edit a poem
But not a walking stick