I like gnarled objects, twisted lengths of wood,
bent shapes, beach wreckage, objects put aside, then found –
in a cave, or an attic, or buried underground –
generations later, their world not understood
embodying some long-ago forgotten use,
the hands which carved them, changed them, as though part
of some intricate puzzle about an encrypted past,
connecting with lives once lived, but silent, abstruse.
Or a poem by an unknown author, with lost words,
debated context, meaning, and yet by which
you feel you’re stopped, and that you’ve overheard
a stubborn mind working a problem through,
steadily, fearlessly, openly, undeterred
by the lack of any answer. Rugged. True.
If you have any comments on this poem, Tom Vaughan would be pleased
to hear from you.