Late November

The common working man , as I have been most of my life, is way above and beyond most of the self-serving MP’s that embarrass this nation.
Late November ( Jim Donaldson ) copyright PRS reg’d
He couldn’t pass the night without, waking up a sweat soiled dry mouthed wrecked old frame, that once hauled out, timber from the forest
He’d pull the chord to spark the power, the chainsaw aching to devour, Silver Birch Old Scots Pine, falling flakes a-spinning to the ground.

This artisan, common man, no heady heights to die for than, to earn his wages, pay his way, provide for those who matter.
Many are the years he toiled. On millers lathes, the sharp silver coils, burning flame, bending pipes, with those hands he offered, honest hire.
These and other jobs, a lifetime, most, of small reward.
Welding steel, turning brass, brazing copper, cutting glass and much more….

Yet he never thought to be the master , of all crafts, some we laughed at. He’d take due rest, revitalise, lay claim to small ‘disasters’ with a smile.
chorus rpt.

And now I swing his axe, the old man has died, seasoned logs will stoke my fire,…..thoughts return to those days of my innocence, ’til embers die away…..sleepy- eyed, life’s embers fading away.


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