The Carver’s hand, gnarled like the oak tree
tired with age, his wisdom a spirit sage.
In the blue and green dappled sun shade
the carpet of his workshop, he works his age old trade.
For he must serve Jack o’ the Green, time spent in careful toil,
leaves spilling southward as he speaks, fertility leaping forth.
Trees born six centuries ago still hold his signature
his face set in stone, looks out across timeless land.
After the crops are reaped and livestock safely gathered
harvest is celebrated before first frost rings the moon.
Then, and only then, he may rest his weary head
returning to his winter sleep once more.
(With grateful thanks for picture kindly provided by Peter Wilkin)