Cogs

The squire, with his maestro hands, mounts his
penny farthing and the wheels go around.

The black oiled hands of the mechanic
crank up the Austin twelve.
Not a grain of dirt on the king fisher blue chassis
but his hands will never be clean.

The unseen hands of the butler,
de-corking a 1901 vintage claret,
take care never to spill a drop
and mar the purity of dove white gloves.

The sticky hands of the cook,
fingers as thick as pork sausages,
turn the handle of the baker’s docker
to batter air from dough.

The vein popping hands of the maid,
red as the split pheasant
that drips globules onto the kitchen floor,
strain as she grapples the mangle.

The alchemic hands of the estate foreman
mix lime and ash and sand
in the cast-iron mortar mill
and tumbling walls are reformed.

The bored hands of the milk-maid
spin the handle of the butter-churn
as she dreams of drinking tea in China
in a vermillion silk kimono.

The lady of the house winds the phonograph
and dances like Isadora Duncan.