MY FATHER

I

To most it simply is their livelihood
To change the live silver until it's dead
And filthy clanging silver and they could
Just as well pass their days in making bread
Or, if they had the brains, transcripts of Greek.
Day clashing after day of scratching knives
Strung into week following tedious week
Grind out their tepid, barely half‑lived lives.

He's not like this. To him the lithe white flakes
Of muscle and the delicate web of bones
Constitute his material ‑ when he hones
His knife and soothes the flesh and bones apart
It is his magnum opus which he makes
For every fillet is a work of art.

(c1978)