The Hay Saw

A relic from a time long gone
Now hanging on a stark white wall.
Silent witness to the march of time
Through history’s progress, obsolete so soon.
Its old smooth handles all decayed
The worm took hold when he was done.
He knew the smoothness of those oak holds
Twelve teeth now blunt and polished black,
By whetted stone, once sharp and bright.
Its work long done, now set to rest
On a modern wall, not shoulders broad.
A museum piece, a thing of wonder
But look much closer, as it draws you near
Though dull and useless you may sense
The sweat and toil it drew from him,
Through calloused hands now bent and stiff.
Lives old and young whose home it shared,
All gone long since, while he looks on
Alone and clinging like the old hay saw.