The Cobbler's Last Poem by Howard Pipe

Light hands work the leather footwear,
door bell tings, eyes open wide,
behind the work bench grinder screeches,
hammer, tool box by its side.

Old man peers above his glasses,
stitching soles, pasting glue,
in a workshop dim and dusty,
magic practised by the few.

Here stood proud the cluttered counter,
a battered till, the cobbler's last,
an empty tin of elbow grease
smells of spirit from the past.