The music of the axe

 can be heard half a mile away

singing and swinging

As it falls and bites

The even rhythm of sweat and spittle

In the big gnarled and calloused hands

Marked with drizzle from sinewed flesh

Every blow counted across

Arms legs and back

revealed being almost as old

As the tree, itself

among great searing knotted oaks

That look on through nodding shimmering leaves

Through swathes of swaying outline breeze

That Quake with each splintered stroke

As the tree begins to snarl

Crackle and creak like the parts

It will become

Finally Submitting to blow after blow from

Sharpened blades

when this father of the wood

Will be joined to enlist

To be mauled and hauled

To the yards

Where it is

Dragged cut and spliced

before finally, shaped shaved and tarred

nailed with all

Its cousins

To sail through storm and spray

For lands, as yet unknown

As do all those who ride the waves

For duty

For king and

For country