Indentured

Long years at this bench
Have I worked, under
The quick and critical eye
Of my master

Saint's days brought
No rest to me
While other 'prentice-lads
Whooped and frolicked
In the streets
I kept to my task

Each new skill was practised,
Honed, on off-cuts, waste,
Until I was deemed worthy
Of the prime material

My back is bent,
Shoulders drooped, eyes sore
From so much hunched labour

The grizzled master grows old;
His guild and trade will soon be mine;
I will be master in his place.


23/2/2010