Fine grain

A poem for Tamdhu

Hushed rhythm of silver, glass and oak,
Felt not through years but generations, 
Centuries even. A rhythm that yolks
One maker to the next, in veneration
Of a single craft through time. Feel it in 
The heat of the fire, or catch it as a glint
Of memory. A song of origin 
In the details, and in each detail a hint
Of time-worn skill. It’s a rhythm without flaws,
Each time sharpening to a point, then a pause.

This quiet moment when all falls into place,
The surest fit of practised craftsmanship,
When all effort becomes effortless grace,
And all time spent is nothing but the tip
Of timelessness. It is a moment felt
In the hands, then the heart, when the deep years 
Of careful, frowning work begin to melt
In relief, finding beauty after fear. 

‘So it hasn't been for nothing.’ That's all 
A maker hopes for. To see their work brought
Into the world, to feel that moment fall
Into place. Satisfaction can't be taught – 

It is a feeling worn smooth over time. 
The fine grain of craft and beauty, entwined.