Member Poem

I saw the timber: flesh of fallen trees;
the parts, of humdrum plastic, nickel, wire.
I did not watch the hours of work, the art
that breathed into these dead things an essence
of the maker, implanted grace and purpose,
made them something more than an artefact,
neither inanimate nor quite alive.

Seeing the flame that flickers in the wood
reminds me of the smiths who worked with fire
to conjure metal out of stone, creating
from it objects steeped in power and meaning.
I sensed the thread that joins that craft and this:
the gift – hard-won, jealously protected –
of binding matter to a human will.

Possession brings responsibility.
This instrument entrusted to my care,
for all its beauty, is yet unfulfilled.
It has a voice, but it can never sing alone.
Now I too feel the craftsman’s burden:
am I worthy? Are these plain hands equipped
to free the music latent in its strings?