The grapes are numbered evenly,
But lack that certain symmetry,
A masters hands would bring to dress,
With metal tools, caress,
To give a living replicate,
And hang like hair about the old clock’s face.
I like to think that each percussive bong,
Informs the fruit to swell and grow,
As if the rural workman knew,
The master gets it wrong.
Sitting in her chair by the range,
Or standing by the Sacred Heart,
Beneath the wireless,
Each fruit changed in turn.
The workman’s hands were guileless,
By Shay Ryan – read another short poem by Shay Ryan – ‘A Bell Rings’