The Barrel - A Coopers Tale Poem by john thomas

Smote the ‘lump’ upon the ‘drive’
The ancient oak did groan,
Smote it down a second time –
And not a stave did moan.

Riven hard and driven tight
The chime hoop bore the load,
Its rivets creaked; an iron child -
Born of Hells hot forge.

The ‘Barrels’ calloused hand aloft,
Like child with candy cane,
And four pound lump of hammer head
Was driven hard again.

Sparks flew from the molten band,
Searing smelt the wood;
Could Thor have walked this Earth again,
As ‘Barrel’, here he stood.

Heady as the Hoppy brew
The smell upon the place,
And fires of oak and charcoal
Toasted red on every face.

Riven stave stacked high on high
And wood shave underfoot;
With flashing Adze and Draw Knife
Each plank and side was cut.

Another crushing, driving blow
Then mighty lump was stilled,
And cask was set and cask was stacked;
Another to be filled.

What journey now before it lay?
Once filled with mans great prides!
To travel beyond creators dreams
Of rich man’s lands, and lives.

Again did raise the calloused hand,
The lump did blot the eye,
Danced high the spark upon the hoop
Then it, like dreams, did die.