Dying Trades

Dying Trades

The stone mason

he was old now
his hands unsteady.
The eyesight fading.
in winter he worked
inside his barn.
it could let the rheumatic
cool down to let him work
for an hour or more.
His grandfather had
apprenticed his father.
and he had apprenticed him.
and now his son was apprenticed.
The tools were the same.
no room for technology
Here only artisan skill.
The polished marble slab
was taking shape.
a headstone that
would stand proudly
in the cemetery.
like many of his others
that he had made
in over fifty years of his life.
it was almost finished
possibly the best work
he had ever done.
the N was the final letter
he tapped it with the iron
rounded chisel.
just hard enough
to create a perfect slant
in the marble.
her name a thing of beauty
EMMA BROWN
His wife
he was careful to leave
space for his own name
below hers
his son would chisel that
when his time was called.
rubbing the marble to a high gloss
he whispered
see you soon my love.