A Poem by Bob Woodroofe


You could only just edge round the door,
lose yourself in the maze,
the accumulation of ages piled head high,
with narrow corridors between.

Wreaths of blue smoke hung
under the anglepoise lamp
that hovered over the workbench.
In its shaft of light they wafted
with the cough that punched
a hole through the haze.

He was hunched over the workbench
engrossed in his latest creation,
I call it that, creation, because
they weren’t conventional
but they always did the job.

From pieces of metal, wood, plastic
he would fashion whatever was required.
No drawing, he just created it.

In his warren he knew where everything was,
could lay his hands on it, given time for thought.
All those things that lay undisturbed for years
after they disappeared into the maw of his cave
with the words “ Don’t throw that away,
it’ll come in useful sometime”.

The room is empty now, bare boards
rise up, freed from the weight they carried,
contents spread around families,
passed on to future generations.

In front of where the workbench used to be
there is a worn patch on the floorboards
and somewhere hanging in the air
a hint of woodbine.


Born and bred and still living in the Vale of Evesham Bob is scientifically trained and has worked in the engineering, computing and environmental fields. His poems have appeared in many poetry magazines and are performed at various local venues. He is self-published by the Greenwood Press. Inspired by the natural world, the landscape and its ancient mysteries he is intrigued by the crossover between art and science and attempts to bring the magic of nature and its restorative and healing qualities to a wider audience. For further details please go to http://www.greenwoodpress.co.uk