Dad’s tools of the trade
acquired over seven decades ago
handed down to another generation
through university and beyond they saw me
eleven scales held in a triangular prism–how clever
solid wood–they don’t make them like that anymore
colour of ivory with accents tricoloured
bearing scars from years of battering
odors absorbed from toolbox neighbours:
ink leads pastels rubbers pounce and the like
rather rank if I may say so
reposing unused for many years
replaced by the computer
forgotten perhaps but not unloved
ready to be taken up again
by another generation
Writing exercise from the FutureLearn How To Make A Poem MOOC
A memory of a tool
Glasgow, 20 June 2018