Calloused Hands

Before the city stirs, he’s there,

Axle groaning, cold in the air.

Horse breath steams in the gray of dawn,

Another load of timber drawn.

Elm and oak cut down by hand,

Stacked for heat through a winter’s span.

Homes without coal, or coin to spare,

Turn to his cart for their share.

Fingers split from rope and frost,

Every splinter a tally of cost.

Back bent young, though not with years,

He trades his strength for neighbour’s’ fires.

The streets are thick with soot and smoke,

Children shiver, mothers stoke.

He knows his lot is grit, not fame—

No ledger keeps a woodman’s name.

Yet when the lamps begin to fade,

And bread is bought with what he’s made,

He sleeps to dreams of forest stands,

Not cobbled streets or calloused hands.