He will bring us tall shelves
that house atlases,

a high pine sofa
that strengthens our backs,

cupboards with doors
that hide our outgrown toys,
store shuttlecocks.

Until then
we can’t go in,
the furniture white-sheeted.
I tread sawdust clouds

to sneak a look
at his workbench —
the floating green bubble
of his spirit-level,
hard HB pencils
he sharpens with a knife
almost to four corners.

Sunday afternoons, we hear
the regular rhythm of his saw,
the knock of each piece
of wood as it lands,
a quick burst of drill.

Sometimes Mum lets me
play his assistant.
I break the spell,
he blinks as if waking,
grateful
for Nescafé, milk and two sugars.