Old Wounds

In the fading light, I work alone,

each crack of wood, a distant moan.

a splinter sinks deep, unbidden and bold,

a shard of the past, its story retold.

The grain of the timber, jagged and raw,

reminds me of battles, their silent law.

Hands that have mended, now trembling in pain,

old wounds resurface, whispering again.