'So you're from South Africa - ' <br /> <br />Wolves discipled into lambs, <br />the carver's hands <br />- fingernails clipped short and square as chisels - <br />browse, off duty. Froth settles in his beer. <br />Relaxed in his well-travelled armchair, <br />he reminds you of your first school headmaster. <br />Eyes humerous, humoured, clear sky-bright. <br />'Then you must know a thing or two.' <br /> <br />He winks. <br />'Now then.' <br />He blows a strong puff, clearing the dust from a treasure. <br />'Nice grapes hmm? <br />But see the grain. Or if you like, don't see, <br />like the student who carved - or plucked - <br />this bunch. I'm not saying who he was.' <br />The fingers scan. His eyes horizon forty years. <br /> <br />'You need to start with the grain, because <br />the grain is the life of the wood.' <br />You nod to show you've understood. <br />'These grapes have everything... <br />but they don't have life. ' <br /> <br />He puts down the piece, <br />picks up another. His eyes glow softly. <br />'When we follow the grain - ' <br /> <br />Stroking a pensive woman's face. <br />Glory of curls around knots in the wood. <br />'We free a mystery. <br /> <br />Our Jean carved this before she died. <br />She'd lost all her hair. <br />So, did life know what was wanted here? '<br /><br />John Garth Raubenheimer<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-lesson-from-the-master/
