Kilted Carpenter Poem by Mervyn Graham

In the lowland breeze, where hills embrace,
Roamed the Kilted Carpenter, with timeless grace.
From sturdy oaks and pines, his craft unfurled,
In a world where hands shaped the very world.

In an age when men were measured by skill,
His tools, his hands, his steadfast will.
No prefab tales from lands unknown,
Just timber, sweat, and work-hewn throne.

Mortise and tenon, a dance of precision,
Half-check joints, in perfect provision.
Biscuit joints, like secrets whispered low,
Dovetails, bridging gaps where stories flow.

Rabbit joints, tongue, and groove's sweet embrace,
Butt joints, firm in their rightful place.
Fingers joints intertwined, in a seamless bond,
Crafted with care, and hearts so fond.

In workshops far from our shores, where goods are mass-made,
He stands apart, in a world retrograde.
For he comes from a time, when men were men,
Where the Kilted Carpenter, once again, begins.

With every stroke of saw and plane,
He brings to life a timeless refrain.
A symphony of wood, a testament told,
In every joint, a saga bold.

So, raise a glass to the Kilted Carpenter true,
Whose hands and heart keep traditions anew.
In a world of fleeting trends and noise,
He's the silent guardian of craft's true joys.