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Peter Branson

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The Salvager

He spent his hard-earned freedom in that shed,
two bar electric fire, appraising form
and filling betting slips, old woodwork tools
and garden implements fussed over, rubbed
to sheen with oily rag, at our expense.
No doubt he was at home there making stuff,
his fag end glowing on/off, like Morse code.
The smell’s what kicked you when you first went in,
a fix of sawdust, polish, grease and damp.
His workbench filled one end and there were shelves
on all four walls, with jam jars full of strange
concoctions, tins of every shape and hue,
unlabelled so you’d no idea what lay
within, yet he knew perfectly each one:
drill bits, nuts, bolts, nails, screws, rawl plugs and such,
then underneath, in ordered piles, used wood.
For nothing went to waste; spent happy hours
recycling stuff. He’d tease out nails from planks,
tap-hammer them till straight against his vice.
He fashioned things with craft and care, each joint
perfection, never mind how long it took,
his coat slung on a nail inside the door,
the pockets tired and sagging out of true.
“Man of few words,” Macmillan nurse explained
when you turned up just after he had gone.
Later, you howled, pummelled the steering wheel.
You sneaked in there when trouble brewed: “I’m down
this week,” he’d sigh, short-changing her again;
hot tears, bleak school reports, cold war missiles
and Hindley clones who lurked inside your dreams.

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