At last, with leather, hammer, nails,
they’d engineered their living plan,
a plot to fix the ankles, heels,
though some saw bridge for vacant soles.
So many hanging, high, by way,
once supple, subtle flesh on bone
now hardened, callous, bleeding, vain
the hope for rescue from this pain.
The cobbler’s dream of walking tall,
to toil when armoured feet surround,
like carpenter who chiselled on,
an occupation. force around.
They string ’em up, use rope or cord,
and think the rest will keep in line.
But once there’s template, spokeshave fit,
the soul will find release in time.
Walk in this skin, as healing bound,
the road holistic, holy ground.
Remember, dead and buried, tomb,
an empty threat to cruel ones.
Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales, UK, from ministry in the Methodist Church due to Parkinson’s Disease, has had pieces curated and published by on-line poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies, including Poetry Potion. He has, like so many, been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. His blog is at https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com
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I enjoyed the poem very much. I think it is very much true to Life. I can identify with it in that my dad was a cobbler and made clogs and shoes. Thank you.