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The axe is not the same.

This one is a single piece of shiny steel,

rubber-sleeved where my hand grips,

bought, not inherited.

The other’s rusty head wobbled a little

on the haft, a cut nail hammered

into the eye where weathered wood

had shrunk and splintered.

The favoured errand: to the woodyard

with a bag and a handful of coins,

to return with offcuts and kneel

in the yard to chop kindling.

Skirting board was the best;

straight grained and smooth-planed,

falling easily into even-sized sticks

to feed the hungry Parkray.

I kneel with my bright axe,

still challenging myself to chop

close either side of a knot in the wood,

to guess how many sticks will fall away.

I could buy kindling or firelighters

for my open fire but skirting boardis still the best, splits smooth and straightas ever. Such things can comfort us.