Final Toll

Final Toll by john clare

all he left were buckets of nails
jars of screws
pails of bolts
clasps and hinges
hammers and chisels
rulers and squares
porter cable saws
crescent wrenches
rasps and files
boards with termites
for me to build
a future upon.

Woodpecker of fodder wing
Cross tied termite trails
Rusted poles of unflagged sails
These are but things I bring.

In foot lockers past tools rest
Anvils echo blows once born
From the wind the bells of mourn
In dust and sweat a terrible mess.

Tin makers watering can dry
Seeds of bygone gardens mold
To low bidders treasures sold
The untended vine covers the sky.

And into the night pounds the sledge
The future work must go on
Under the old bare bulb alone
Termites flee from the striken wedge.

Buckets of bolts
Closets full of coats
Hinges for rotted doors
Locks closed forever more
Stetson hats for the heat of day
Vested gowns in which to pray
I don the tool apron
Wait for the final bell to toll
To tell me
My present work is done.

Hold the four square nail
Hammer this heart pine sweet
The sawdust piles at thy feet
Your time child, to toll the bell.