WHTTLE ME DOWN SOME
I am drawing new breath from just being alive : the
man on the old wooden chair, whittling a stick, making
a form. The knife, in good stead always, follows each
command. Sharp as it as, as sharp as good wit.
-
Here, where the windows now are opened, some fair
breeze barely makes it in. As in some old military
barracks, stifled and gagging for air, the atmosphere
around seems too tense and close - yet this fellow is
miles away, and happy, and intent on his work.
-
Splay me an opening, let me in too.
We should all be so gay, (in the
poetic sense, not like today).
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