The Itinerant Mr Ferntree

I park round at the tradesman’s entrance
yet there is no gilded trader here

in perception, I am the service worker
industrious, necessary, in and out the way,
ephemeral if you will

job done and gone, a small burnt on memory then,
no more
I left you to the assembled glory of one

who gave you some function in utility,
yet you won’t remember me:
this small sphere of influence, just moves on

You, however, will leave a growing vision
In that glow ember of morning
I’ll then forge it, frame it and warp-rearrange it

Into a woven tapestry of war stories,
a lamplit table of slow reverie
that grows and feeds a life in me.