Stonemason

      

The tapping stopped centuries ago.

Relentless calloused hands,

focussed eye and creator’s breath,

ceased their evolution.

Sharp tooled progress,

its measured debris long since swept away

by time’s persistent fingers,

leaves crafted witness.

Someone’s son penetrated these stone canvasses

with father’s sweated skill and an eye upon holy purpose.

Hands too hard for music’s gentility

purposed their learned dexterity

a courtesy addressed to dressing stone.

Younger fingers shadowed the inching revelation,

played with chalky facsimilesand dreamed.

Sometime the baton passed,

sometime son became father;

fresher blood and blister

fondled stoney monument.

For this carved epitaph

only decay carries on creation,

only admiring fingers soften the edge,

only time tells.