ramblings and things

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Sawing Logs,1955

We hauled  wood, coppiced trunks,
Windfall, or boughs lightning struck
All gathered from around the fields
And loaded on a flat bed  truck
To be taken to to the farm yard
Two or three loads, no more,
Where the Fordson belt drive
Was connected to the old saw:

Table mounted, static, huge teeth
On large steel circular blade
A machine to be used with care.
Unforgiving of mistakes made.
She would gleam as she turned
Bite timber with screaming whine
We treated her with respect
As we formed a working line.

One to hand, one to feed the saw,
One  to gather and add  to the pile
So you could see each one grow
Quite quickly in just a little while;
One heap for our family
One heap for the farm's fires
The wood being our reward
In lieu of wages for our hire.

Our logs transported home
To be stacked and then split
To warm the old cottage
When the Yorkist range was lit.
Gathered around the hearth
Those long dark winter nights
The flicker from the flames
Softening the electric lights

Long before television spread
Just the radio to listen to
A family sitting together
Always found things to do.
And in the warmth of the fire
The thing I liked the most
Holding the long handled fork
To the coals to make fresh toast.


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Sawing Logs,1955